Image Credit: Compilation/Jennifer Stahn

In my garbage can lies an empty two-pound bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs, three rose stems and a poorly folded, canary-yellow leaflet with the words “Eternal Salvation” sprawled across the top like a lazy sun-tanner in June.

Despite the paraphernalia — collected both from Safeway and the street-corner evangelist outside of Safeway — I totally missed the approach of Easter this year.

I got warning words from my parents and my husband that I was not to expect an Easter basket. I easily avoided getting suckered into buying Peeps, even though they make the most adorable Instagram companions. I work for a church, 5 days of the week, and I have not been to worship since the first week of Lent.

Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary.

When I was growing up (preacher’s daughter and all) I experienced the approach of Easter under the same duress as I did the approach of Christmas — everyone was stressed out and Jesus was coming. Granted, the focus in my household was more on the former, but we didn’t have A without B.

I learned to love the little things about the season. The Easter bunny might come and wake me up early to hunt for plastic eggs in the dewy grass, I would race home from church to catch the old car show that drove from Westsyde to Lansdowne and I would collapse at the end of the afternoon in a heap of my Easter best to unbuckle my Mary Janes and eat smoked honey ham.

I made the mistake 11 years ago of watching The Passion of the Christ in movie theatres on Good Friday and ever since I think I’ve let Easter creep up on me and then slink away as quietly as possible. It was a not-so-gentle instruction that no matter ones beliefs, the end of one season and the start of another is not always easy.

I imagine whether one looks at Easter as a religious season or a Spring extravaganza the theme is similar. That is, one of new birth, new beginnings and new eyes to see the world through.

It is unfortunate that this year, it was left to Justin Bieber to remind me of this.

Blame it on the fact I’m not Catholic and those Hail Marys up there did nothing to redeem my absence from five weeks worth of liturgy or blame it on the fact I was so desperate for a reminder that Spring is a beautiful time of year I clung to the first thing that dropped a hint.

Martha Stewart and Snoop Dogg sitting side-by-side at the roast of Justin Bieber last Monday night. 

I have never been a fan. Sure, I cried watching his documentary, but I cry in all documentaries because I like to imagine the celebrity’s parents watching it with me.

This roast —hilarious and well executed —was, from the beginning, something I assumed to be a publicity ploy. Maybe if Justin Bieber was willing to laugh at himself and take a verbal beating, we the public could give him a second chance. You know, let him back into Canada.

When Bieber stood up at the end to issue a public apology I wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t Oscar-worthy, but I can’t make myself cry on cue so who am I to judge. This guy wants us to look at him in a new light. He wants to start over and prove himself. He wants us to keep buying his records even though he isn’t the same guy who used to smile when we smiled.

I was — in the mildest form of the word — impressed.

A kind of slow-clap impressed — the kind you give someone who really tried to make the slam dunk and instead shot himself through the basket. I don’t know if he succeeded, but he certainly didn’t fail.

For one, I was all, “Holy mini eggs, Justin Bieber just preached the meaning of the Easter season to me HARD,” and for two, the end credits played this new song of his, Roller Coaster, and it’s now totally my jam.

— Andria Parker is a 20-something blogger from Kamloops

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