I'm eighty-five now, born in 1940, and every Easter, I close my eyes and I'm a girl again in our little weatherboard in Bendigo. The air smells of Mum's hot cross buns, and Dad's tuning the wireless for the church broadcast. We'd walk to St. Paul's, the whole street together, singing "Christ the Lord is Risen Today" till our hearts burst. Back home, we'd share lamb and stories of Jesus, no one questioning why the Cross mattered—it just did. That was Australia then: families, faith, a nation knit tight by love for God and each other. Now, I look out my window at a world that's lost its way—secular rot, multiculturalism tearing at our seams—and a tear falls for what's gone. But don't you worry, my faith in Jesus holds me steady, as it always has. Easter's still the heart of the family home, and if we raise the Cross again, we can mend this fractured land.
Oh, those Easters were magic—not the shiny kind, but the kind that sank deep. Every Good Friday, we'd kneel as a family, Dad reading from the Gospel, his voice cracking at the nails and the tomb. Sunday was joy—kids in Sunday best, neighbours swapping homemade eggs, not the chocolate nonsense you see now. Church wasn't a chore; it was home, where we'd pray for the diggers, for rain, for each other. Australia felt like one big family then, all Christian, all pulling the same way. You'd see it in the shops, closed for holy days, or hear it in school, where we'd recite prayers without a fuss. Faith wasn't just talk—it was the fair go, the helping hand, the quiet strength that built this country. Back then, we knew who we were: Aussies under God, proud and true.
But things changed, didn't they? I watched it creep in, slow at first, then bold as brass. By the 1970s, multiculturalism was the word, and suddenly our ways weren't good enough. Easter got pushed aside—schools swapped hymns for "cultural days," as if Jesus was just another story. Secularism's worse: prayers banned, crosses hidden, like faith's something to be ashamed of. In Melbourne now, they call it "autumn break" in some places, and my heart aches. Families are fraying too—kids on screens, parents too busy, no time for the old stories. I see towns I knew, full of new faces and faiths, and I don't judge 'em, but I mourn the unity we lost. This isn't the Australia I raised my boys and girls in, where the Cross stood tall and we all knew our place. It feels like a betrayal, not of people, but of the soul we shared.
Yet here I am, still blessed, because Jesus never left me. Through wars, recessions, and this modern mess, He's my rock. I pray each night, and He's right there, same as when I was ten, whispering hope. I'm not alone either. In places like Tamworth, families still gather for Easter, teaching kids about the Resurrection, not rabbits. I hear of churches packing out, folks my age and younger saying no to the rot. I think of a young mum I met, Sarah, who's got her kids praying before dinner, telling them about the Cross like my mum did. It warms me—Australia's heart still beats. My wisdom's simple: go back to Jesus. Make your home a place of faith, and you'll find the strength to face anything—division, doubt, or despair.
So here's my plea, from an old girl who's seen too much fade. This Easter, bring it home. Bake the buns, read the Gospels, sing the hymns—make your family whole again. Get to church, hold your kids close, tell them why Jesus died and rose. Don't let the world's noise—secular laws, multicultural muddle—steal what's yours. Write to your MP if they try scrubbing Easter from our schools; back leaders who'll keep our faith proud. It's not about turning back time; it's about building homes where love and God come first. I see it in my dreams: Australia united, families strong, the Cross shining over every hearth. My tear's for yesterday, but my prayer's for tomorrow—may Jesus guide us back to one nation, one faith, one home.