When I was little, I loved looking for Easter calves. After church Easter morning, we’d walk out into the pasture searching for newborns. Back then, I believed Easter calves came from God. Forget the Easter Bunny and hunting Easter eggs, finding Easter calves in the pasture always thrilled me.

Not every year brought an Easter calf. Yet other years, two, or even three babies graced the morning wobbling on wet, shaky legs or curled in tight little fetal calf positions on the dew-damp grass. The curled up ones were my favorite. Sometimes a little girl could pet these sleeping babies if she approached very slowly with the mama at the barn.

As I grew up, I eventually lost interest in the Easter calves. Teenage girls seek out boys, not slippery newborn bovines. By the time I turned 18, I’d fallen crazy in love with Scott. Calves in the pasture meant nothing to me. Scott and I spent spring break with our friends in Santa Cruz. In the arms of my boyfriend Easter came and went without the thought of an Easter calf.

How life would change the following year. Several months before Easter, Scott broke up with me. Absolutely crushed, I moved to Reno, Nevada all by myself. At 19 years old, I got a studio apartment and a job and cried most nights. As Easter approached, I longed for home. When the restaurant I worked for hired me, I’d requested Easter off. “No guarantees with holidays,” my new boss said.

Two days before Easter, a snowstorm was also brewing in the Sierra Nevada mountains. My tiny Toyota Celica with its sunroof was not the car to conquer the pass, even if I got off work by some miracle.

“Please, God,” I prayed. “Let me get home for Easter.” I believed in God in those days, but I wasn’t born again and had no personal relationship with Jesus.

When the snowflakes fell on Good Friday and landed in my hair as I walked to work, I prayed, “It seems impossible now, but please God, let me make it home for Easter.”

Sure enough, on top of the snow, I was scheduled to work Easter Sunday. Nobody was about to trade with me. I didn’t even ask. “Please God, I’m so homesick. Take me home for Easter,” I prayed that Good Friday.

On Saturday morning, back at work with snow blanketing the sidewalks, again I prayed, “I don’t see how this is possible, but I want to go home. I need to see an Easter calf.”

It had been ages since I thought of Easter calves. Now I couldn’t get them out of my mind. In California spring had sprung, but where I lived in Reno, winter held the land captive. All gray and drab and high desert drear. I closed my eyes and pictured green pastures, daffodils and tulips blooming in my mom’s flower beds, my parents’ lovely two-story home with its front porch and white porch swing beckoning me there.

“If you can drive in the snow, head home after your shift today,” my boss said as he passed me in the bakery shop. I was stacking warm cookies on the shelf doing my best not to break into tears over being stuck in Reno for Easter. “Please don’t tease me today. I’m really homesick,” I told my boss. I thought he was kidding about Easter. We were short-staffed on Sunday. I couldn’t imagine him letting me miss work.

My boss smiled, his eyes compassionate for a change. “I’m not teasing. Go home. I’m tired of looking at your sad, little face. Just be back for the night shift on Monday. Happy Easter, you’ve earned it.”

I bounded over and hugged him. “Thank you!” “You’re welcome, now get back to work young lady.”

“Please, Lord, stop the snow,” I prayed after that. “Please, God, you know I can’t get over the pass in this snow.”

Several hours later, one of the late afternoon shift employees strolled in. “The snow’s melting so fast,” she said. “I can’t believe it. You should see the sun shining out there.”

“Thank you, God! Thank you!” I sang to myself the rest of my shift.

The following morning I attended our little Catholic church with my mom in California. Upon returning home, I asked my dad to walk out into the pasture with me to look for Easter calves. My parents own a ranch in the Sutter Buttes. Sometimes you have to hike through the hills to find the cows.

“Oh, please, God, grant me an Easter calf this year,” I prayed as we wandered through lush, green grass and wildflowers. Bright orange poppies and small, orange fiddleneck. Perfect yellow pansies. Dainty blue dicks and wild purple carnations smaller than thimbles. I grew up making bouquets out of these wildflowers. How happy I was to be home! When we finally found the cows, not one, but two newborn calves greeted us.

Two calves.

Tears filled my eyes. Maybe this meant Scott would come home, too. That we would get back together and get married. I hadn’t heard from Scott since he’d broken up with me. I missed him so much that Easter.

Looking back, I realize those two Easter calves were indeed a promise from God. Not only would Scott come home, and we’d marry, but a decade later we’d both be born again. Scott’s spiritual awakening happened Easter week.

In a way we are Easter calves.

If you long to be born again, John 3:7-15, or just renewed by the God who makes all things new, Revelation 21:5, know I’m praying for you. My road to redemption was a broken one. Perhaps yours is as well. Through it all, I see how Jesus led me so sweetly and patiently into a relationship with God. There is so much beauty in belonging to the Lord. Pray for a way to get home this Easter. I’ll be praying with you my friend.