In France, there’s no Easter Bunny. Instead, there’s a story I love—one that still feels wrapped in a bit of mystery and childhood wonder. On Good Friday, the church bells across France fall silent. The story goes that they’ve flown to Rome, carrying with them the sorrow of the crucifixion. For three days, the silence hangs in the air, a kind of reverent pause.
Then, early on Easter morning, the bells return—ringing joyfully as they fly back home, scattering chocolates across gardens and courtyards as they pass. Children rush out, wicker baskets in hand, to gather the sweet treasures left behind: chocolate bells, little hens, eggs, and tiny fish called fritures. It’s a tradition that’s as much about wonder as it is about chocolate—one of those quiet French moments where the sacred and the simple dance together, just beneath the surface of daily life.
I added extra surprises a rope ladder, and sparkly shoes (a gift from my friend Michelle.)
Clare Sparkle’s dress is a hand me down from my cousin Judy.
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