With everything that is going on in the world right now, like most everybody else on this planet, I wouldn’t be going to church. I planned to write an Easter piece for the Sun, then listen to our Northminster service with pastor Chuck Poole preaching, but for some reason I couldn’t get started on inspirational writing. So instead, I turned on my computer, Bessie Maude II, and listened to Andrea Bocelli sing the ''Lord’s Prayer'' with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Caught up in hearing his powerful, magical voice, I found myself absorbing his words, ending with, ''and the power and the glory, forever."
For some reason my head dropped in shame. ''Forgive us our trespasses,'' rang in my ears.
Here it is, Easter Sunday, ''Christ the Lord is risen today,'' and I find it hard to write deep meaningful words about my Christian faith. Now, this will be kinda boring, but I’ll give you, my patient, tolerant readers a quick rendition of why. And, as things often do with many of us, it may go back to childhood.
Many, many moons ago, Fondren Presbyterian Church met in an old house, on the corner of what I believe is North State and Taylor Street.
One Easter Sunday, before the sermon, the children were to have a short program. After the choir sang, ''Our Father Who Art in Heaven,'' a nine-year-old had been asked to offer a prayer in front of the whole church.
Ready to shine, and dressed to the nine’s in her Easter go to meeting outfit, heart pounding with pride and anticipation, the star of the show stood in front of the congregation. No words came out.
Finally yours truly whispered, ''I can’t think of anything to say."
''The emblem of suffering and shame."
And my dear friends, I often find that to be true when I try to give a testament to my faith.
But this I can say. Glory, Hallelujah! On this Easter Sunday we have come to an empty tomb; our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ has been resurrected from the grave.
''Love so amazing, so divine."
So I will just end this segment by saying from the heart, ''Let us be kind, one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another. Even as God, for Christ’s sake forgave us."
To God be the glory!
Now, time wise it would still be awhile before the Northminster Church Service. Hoping I’d find something to laugh about, I picked up an old scrapbook.
2008 — Here it was, Easter Sunday and no Easter bonnet crowned my head. With no new clothes to wear, much less a flowered chapeau, earlier in the day I had made a decision about going to church. ''We’ve been the last three Sundays,'' I said to my husband. ''This is the day everybody likes to see and be seen in their finest clothes. Nobody’s had any seventy-five-percent-off sales, so I don’t have a new outfit. Besides, we’re having our family over for an Easter egg hunt and a late lunch, and I have a lot to do."
With that decision made, I left the house to go on my morning excursion with our dog, June Cleaver. Unfortunately, on the walk The Cleave went into attack mode after a younger dog and trying to hold her, I fell on the sidewalk and scraped my knee. Back home, with no Band-aids in the house, I put together a makeshift bandage of duct tape and toilet paper. Once again I thought, as I already had several times this morning, that I should have gone to church and picked up some take-out food for our family lunch crowd.
Maybe I was being punished by the powers that be.
Dressed in out-of-season clothes and waiting for our company, I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was in between colors and perms. My eyebrows hadn’t been dyed, they were timber wolf gray. My face looked like a stuffed egg that had been left out in the sunshine for several weeks—and we could have hidden Easter eggs in my neck folds. And they might not have been found until they got high and somebody smelled them.
I stuck a false hair piece on the back of my head, hoping it might provide a much needed pickup and once again checked myself in the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. Instead of a Jennifer Anniston hairdo, mine looked for all the world like an artificial tail hanging from a show horse.
Just then the doorbell rang, and forgetting about the fake blond tresses clamped to my head, I hurried to the front of the house.
The first grandson through the door laughed. ''Hair 'em, scare 'em.''
''That’s a hair-raising sight,'' another family member hooted.
As everybody came in, the kindest words that were uttered were, ''Well, as I live and breathe. Miss Dolly has come from Dollywood to celebrate Easter with us."
Everyone there and done with the family egg hunt, we were ready to eat. Our family is such I never know how many we’ll have, 10, 20, or 30. On this day we had 21 adults, one toddler and three infants. And as we always do, we blessed the food with son Bill leading us in prayer. ''Let us bow our heads.
''Heavenly Father, we are so fortunate to gather here as a family…''
In the background, a four-year old great-grandson who had fallen out of a tree quietly sobbed into a pink linen napkin decorated with blue Easter bunnies and green and yellow eggs. He had rejected the offer of a toilet paper and duct tape Band-aid substitute.
''For this, our food that has been prepared and that we are about to receive,'' Bill went on with his prayer,
''Pork and beans make me puke,'' the four-year old whined.
Of the three infants at the house, each one was engaged in some form of bodily function, the mildest of which was fretting and crying as Bill closed with, ''Bless this food to our nourishment and our bodies to Thy service."
I added my own silent addendum to Bill’s prayer that day.
Next year—seventy-five-percent-off sale or not, I am going to buy me a new outfit. Fifty will work just fine. We are making reservations at the Jackson Country Club for the buffet Easter lunch. And I will have my eyebrows and hair dyed. A new permanent. An appointment with a plastic surgeon may be in the near future.
2020 — Time for our Northminster service, I punched Bessie Maude II to the designated streaming channel. I want to be as close in spirit to my sanctuary as possible.
Speaking in cadence, along with the organ music I respectfully say, “Gracious Lord, come next Easter, hat or no hat, new outfit or old, face mask or not, I hope to be at our church on Easter Sunday. To celebrate Your love for us and the resurrection of Your son, our Lord, Jesus Christ.’
I was more than ready to hear the sermon, ''Easter in Exile'' given by our beloved, compassionate pastor, Chuck Poole. A true man of God, he ministers to so many people, in so many, caring ways.
The sermon over, I pressed Bessie Maude off.
Chuck’s closing words ringing in my ears, they will carry me through the whole of next week.
''Placing your lives in the hands of God, Hands that will hold you, and never let you go."
And a belated, happy Easter to you all.
