From Broken to Beautiful

 From Broken to Beautiful: 

Our First Easter as One Family

      First's for a grieving person are extremely difficult.  A widow or a widower struggles with a first meal in public alone, a first church service without them, first major holidays, first birthdays, first mornings in an empty bed, first wedding anniversary without them, and a mine field of other firsts that no one can expect or foresee.  Tiff passed away on November 25, which meant that I had a lot of really heavy firsts to emotionally stare down.  I had Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Christmas program at my kid's school, first urgent care appointment without her, all three kid's birthdays are in the winter, etc.  Those first few months were littered with moments on my calendar that were supposed to be triumphs, not tragedies, moments to celebrate, not cry.  

      First's are hard, but not all first's are bad.  I look back in time and I remember that the only reason I have sad firsts to cry over is because of some really wonderful firsts.  I wouldn't have any first's to grieve over if I didn't have so many wonderful 'first' memories prior to that.  Now that I'm remarried I can look into my calendar and I see a lot of exciting first's in my future.  Things that once caused trepidation now cause excitement.  There’s something sacred about firsts.  First holidays. First traditions. First moments where you look around and realize this is different now.

      This Easter was one of those moments for us.  Not just because it’s Easter but because it was our first Easter as a family of seven.  Not just our first Easter together as a family of seven, but our first major holiday celebration together as one family.  Together our family has two stories.  Two losses.  Two broken places that only God could touch.  Now being gently, faithfully, and sometimes imperfectly woven into one.  Now, the Easter of 2026 didn't follow my well laid plans.  Our littlest one woke up Saturday with the stomach bug which kept us from going to church, delayed our family dinner, and meant we had to hunt for Easter eggs at the house instead of at a big event.  Life, much like grief, doesn't follow our plans, but the beauty of a different Easter celebration was just as beautiful, if not more beautiful because of the hiccups.  

      Easter is difficult for the grieving person because it carries the weight of what once was.  Easter has always carried meaning for us but if we’re honest, it’s also carried memories.  The Robinson family used to have a lot of activity during the week of Easter.  I would typically speak at a Good Friday service, we would spend LOTS of time with family, we would buy easter flowers, Tiff would buy the kids matching clothes in hopes for the perfect easter photo.  We would tote the kids off to the mall to see a creepy Easter Bunny.  I can vividly remember taking the kids to an Easter Egg hunt on the mountain.  It was a challenge because it snowed earlier that day and covered most of the eggs.  But after losing Tiffanie Easter egg hunts felt different.  Family photos with someone missing.  Church services where worship felt heavier than joyful.  Meals where laughter existed but grief quietly sat at the table too.  Les and I both had traditions. Rhythms. Ways things used to be.  And when loss enters your life, it doesn’t just take a person, it reshapes every tradition attached to them.  So stepping into this Easter, we weren’t just celebrating, but we are remembering, carrying, and honoring.

      This year, there are more footsteps running through the house.  We stayed at her grandparents house in Canada and needless to say with five total children the house was anything but silent.  There were more baskets to fill.  More voices around the table.  More personalities, more laughter, more life.  This year, Easter egg hunts weren't just a tradition, they were a picture of joy returning.  Matching outfits may not be perfectly coordinated (and let’s be honest, with seven people, that’s nearly impossible), and needless to say with us being 3000 miles apart for the time being it's almost impossible to match outfits.  But those mismatched outfits represent something deeper than appearance.  They represent unity.  Not the pursuit of the perfection of yesterday, not a life of ease, but instead a life of togetherness.  We took pictures, some chaotic, some blurry, some with kids not looking at the camera, but every single one of them will tell a the story that God restores.

      Easter isn’t just something we celebrate.  It’s something we’re living.  The Gospel is the way of life.  Because the resurrection of Jesus isn’t just about what happened then, it’s about what He’s still doing now.  Taking what was broken, and bringing it back to life.  Taking grief and planting seeds of healing.  Taking loss and writing a story that doesn’t end there.  Our family is living proof that resurrection isn’t just a moment, it’s a total change of past, present, and future.  It can be a slow, sometimes painful, but always intentional work of God bringing beauty from ashes.

      This Easter, we gathered around a table that looked different.  This year our Easter held more new faces then old, but the table was fuller than it once was.  And that’s not lost on me.  Why?  Because the same power that rolled the stone away is the same power that brought our lives together.  Jesus walked out of the grave, leaving death behind.  And in His resurrection, He made room for life, real life, to begin again.  Not just in eternity…but here. Now.  In homes.  In families.  In stories like ours.  I value the resurrection more deeply now than ever because I can see Him resurrecting hope, peace, and a future for His glory.