Note: On this celebratory day of Easter, when the long period of Lent has ended in triumph, I am sharing a short essay I wrote in response to a prompt that I gave to my memoir writing class this past week.
A blast of warm, fragrant air hit us as we opened the door to the stairway that would lead to the long meeting hall. My friend Sandra and I had raced from the church to the store, atop which was the hall. It was Easter Sunday morning and our church had gathered for a breakfast.
The day had started in the dark cold of my bedroom. Usually Mother had difficulty getting me out of bed, but not on this special Sunday. I hurriedly dressed in my old clothes—Mother didn’t approve of wearing new Easter clothes to the sunrise service—and was waiting by the door as everyone else was donning coats. We opened the door to find a light coating of snow on everything, even the purple and gold pansies that Mother had planted just the week before.
Dad used the headlights because dawn was still a half-hour away as we drove up to the church and quietly entered the building. We could not share the joy of Easter’s resurrection until we had gone through the darkness of coming to the tomb to see where our Lord lay. Each year, the congregation began with singing the words, “Low in the grave He lay, Jesus, my Savior; waiting the coming day, Jesus, my Lord.” And so we were waiting with Him until we reached the triumphant chorus, “Up from the grave He arose, with a mighty triumph o’er His foes.”
The tone of the whole service shifted from somber to joyous, even as the outside world cooperated with our joy by allowing the sun to rise in the east and melt away the wintry snow. Then it was time for the gigantic celebration that Sandra and I were racing towards.
The smell of crisp fried bacon and percolated coffee filled the whole hall. All the women had donned their aprons and were either setting the long tables made with sawhorses or manning one of the many griddles and hot plates for the red-eye gravy to top homemade biscuits, the fried potatoes, or the bacon. Men were filling their cups with coffee and standing around waiting for the “all call” to come to the tables to eat.
This was one time that we children were allowed to sit with each other, instead of with our families. To fill our own glasses with orange juice, to select our own food, to choose our own places at our special table where the moms could still keep an eye on us made us feel quite adult.
Many of my friends wore their Easter finery to the breakfast, instead of wearing everyday clothes like our family. I’m not quite sure who made decisions about that. Everyone went home after the breakfast before returning for Sunday School, so all of us could change clothes, if we wished. For my mother, the simple dress of the morning symbolized the not yet risen Christ. We were solemn and plain, befitting the mood of the sunrise service.
When we returned for Sunday School and church in our new Easter clothes, we were dressed for our own resurrections. We reflected the time of celebration, of absolute joyous glee, with our new dresses, shoes, hats, and gloves. I had chosen my turquoise and white iridescent nylon dress, my black patent shoes, my white hat and gloves with care. I had been saving my allowance money for months so that I could wear a new outfit that shouted to everyone that spring had come, that Christ had risen, and that I lived in a resurrection world.
A Myriad of Things 