Remembering the Children: An Easter Reflection

Lent is one of those seasons that quietly invites us to slow down.  And then, Easter is the season that bursts into our lives with alleluias and the proclamation that love is stronger than death. As parents and caregivers, we don’t just hear that story once a year—we watch it unfold in real time in the lives of children. Similarly, resurrection is not something that happened long ago. It’s something still happening, something still growing.  

And if we’re paying attention, children help us see it. 

In the Gospels, children appear at the edges of the story. The disciples are consumed with the serious business of ministry, but children wander close — curious, unafraid, unbothered by what they don’t yet understand. More than once the disciples try to send them away. And every time, Jesus stops everything. “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them.”

At Easter, that moment feels especially important. Because resurrection has a way of showing up in places we might overlook—in small voices, in questions, in the quiet rhythms of a child’s life. 

My work with children from birth to age seven has convinced me that remembering the children is not an add-on ministry. It is central to the life of the church. These earliest years are when a child first experiences belonging, first discovers wonder, first learns that God is real and that church is a place where they are known and loved.

I saw it just recently in my own living room. My three-year-old granddaughter was playing house. She pulled two of her little chairs together to make a bed. Then — before she climbed in — she stopped. She went to the back of one of the chairs, folded her little hands, and prayed. Silently. No one told her to. She wasn’t even aware that we were watching. When she finished, she looked up, announced she was getting into bed, and crawled between those two chairs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because for her — it was. She didn’t know she was doing theology. She didn’t know she was practicing one of the oldest human rituals in existence. She just knew that before you rest, you pray. 

This is what resurrection looks like. Not just empty tombs and ancient stories, but seeds planted early—growing quietly, unexpectedly into something alive. Faith taking root in the imagination of a child. New life unfolding right in front of her. 

These moments seem small. But they carry the promise of Easter within them. Because Easter is not only about what God did long ago. It is about the future God is still creating —bringing life out of what we could not have planned, hope out of what we did not expect. 

Five months ago, my cousin welcomed a baby she wasn’t expecting. Life has a way of surprising us like that. And when it came time to name her, she didn’t have to think long. She named her Hope. In this beautiful photo, she sits inside an Easter egg — a tiny, joyful sign of the resurrection story we celebrate today. But Hope is more than a symbol. She is a living reminder that God is not finished. That the story keeps going. That every time a young child hears about resurrection for the first time, Easter is not just remembered — Easter happens again.

When I look at Hope, I understand why this work matters so much. In her small hands, her laughter, the endless questions she will soon have about the world, I can already see the future God is bringing to life. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is already part of the story. 

And maybe that is the invitation of Easter for all of us: 

To notice where new life is already breaking through.
To pay attention to the children.
To trust that resurrection is not behind us—it is still unfolding.
Not as an afterthought.
Not as a sweet moment on the sidelines, but as one of the clearest places we can see that love is still alive. 

Her name is Hope. 

And she is exactly that. 

Dedicated to parents navigating faith formation in the early years.