When Braeden was a toddler, I wondered as Easter approached how I was going to teach him the real meaning of Easter. How could I explain the wonder of it all in a way that he would understand?
I asked my dad.
He told me, kindly, that he didn't think I could. "He's a little young still." He told me to wait until Braeden was older.
What I didn't realize was that I didn't understand Easter as much then as I would in the future either.
I knew the story. I knew what happened. I had felt deep inside that it was true. I knew that Jesus Christ was my Savior, that He'd suffered and died for me. I knew that because He lived again, we all would live again.
I knew all that.
Then, things happened. My knowledge of the Atonement, the knowledge that my parents had patiently taught me, was tested. Heartaches occurred that were nothing like the supposed tragedies of my youth (if you could see a picture of me when I was about 8th grade, you would understand the supposed tragedies I'm talking about...yikes).
Time after time, when I felt sad or discouraged or broken, I felt the healing and atoning love of my Savior, Jesus Christ. I marvel that because of Easter, because of Jesus, we can repent, we can be forgiven, we can forgive. We can be comforted. We can know that when this life ends, we will live again.
And when it comes down to it, there's nothing more that matters.