A few years ago, Jean and I held a special gathering on Easter Sunday. Our boys Trent and Troy were there, as were our two foster children – 8 and 10 – and a few friends and their children.
As I chatted with the adults in the living room, squeals of laughter erupted out of our kitchen. We all went to investigate and found Jean sitting on the floor covered by Easter grass, and surrounded by dozens of plastic Easter eggs, all opened and the contents strewn across the floor.