Easter memories
Like most folks of the Christian faith, Easter week was a big deal in our family. Early in the week or the week before, mom took the kids to Montgomery Wards or Sears to purchase the all-important Easter outfit. Easter dressing was of utmost importance in our clan. The girls enjoyed bright new dresses, often accompanied by a prominent bonnet and shiny new shoes. For me, it was a treat to get a new suit, tie, and shoes. I don’t remember if dad made the yearly purchases, but mom usually donned a new spring outfit as well.
This ritual was vital because it was part of the Easter morning photo session held on our front lawn. After the eggs were colored on Saturday evening, I went to bed knowing that a giant rabbit would arrive sometime during the night delivering assorted candy in brightly colored baskets nestled on imitation grass. I still love bunnies! How could you not love a creature who brings you candy!
Things often went downhill after the baskets were opened since I could devour several pounds of sugar in five minutes. Filling Donnie with sugar was a prescription for trouble, and any moment mom left the room, I stuffed my face with Peeps and chocolate-covered eggs. By the time the photoshoot began, I was running around the yard like my pants were on fire, making strange faces and harassing my sisters. Only after numerous death threats from mom did I settle long enough to take a picture in which I looked delightfully angelic.
In a while, the whole clan piled in the Chrysler Imperial and headed for church. We first attended Sunday School, which I thoroughly enjoyed since there was always a unique Easter craft designed to demonstrate Jesus’ resurrection ingeniously. It is incredible how many ways one can make the empty tomb into a children’s activity. The artwork kept me busy for an hour, but from there, my next hour went downhill fast.
I was required to sit next to my parents during church, strategically separating me from my sisters by placing two parents in between. Otherwise, war would have broken out quickly, and I would likely experience the wrath of my father, who didn’t put up with any shenanigans during the ceremony. I could handle the singing part because at least one could experience movement getting up and down while bellowing out, Up From the Grave He Arose. I liked that song which was a standard at Bethany Christian. It seemed kinda like a fight song to me, especially when we shouted, With a Mighty Triumph Ore’ His Foes! At that point, Jesus was right up there with the Lone Ranger in my book.
But then things got serious through the subsequent two rituals. First, we “partook” of communion, which meant the room turned somber as Uncle Waldo presented a meditation that sounded like this was not to be a jovial moment. He could scare the bejeebers out of me when he sternly reminded us that we better get our act together and stop sinning before consuming these symbols. And, if you couldn’t absolve yourself of sinful thoughts, you best not share in Lord’s Supper. You would be calling down Divine condemnation on your rotten little head if you partook in an unworthy manner. Whew, this was scary stuff! I always wondered why they called it “supper.” We hadn’t even had lunch yet, but every Sunday, it was supper, then lunch, then supper again. Sometimes this church thing was hard to understand for a kid.
Quieting my mind was usually an impossible feat for me because I was born with ants in my pants which made sitting still for more than a minute absolute torture. My mom could turn her angelic face into a demon stare at a moments’ notice and if dad got involved, well, let’s just say it wasn’t pleasant. And the worst was yet to come!
Our preacher, Kermit Pew, yes, that was really his name, mounted the pulpit, and all hell broke loose. For the next forty-five minutes, that man’s face turned every shade of red in the book. This fellow could make even the resurrection of Jesus an occasion for fear and trembling. If you look up the definition of “hellfire and damnation,” you will find a photo of my preacher during the youngest chapter of my religious experience. Fortunately, the elders later found a more kind, loving, and happy man to fill the position, which significantly improved my view of ecclesiastical experience.
Nearly every week, the inevitable happened. Dad couldn’t take his imp of a son any longer, so we took a little trip outside, after which I returned to my pew alongside mother with a red face, snuffing my running nose and making my pouting lower lip protrude like I just had a Botox treatment. Finally, Kermit got whatever was bothering him entirely off of his chest, and we sang thirteen verses of Just As I Am while folks who were thoroughly beaten down sauntered up the aisle to repent. Sometimes there were baptisms that prolonged the misery even further. Folks donned white robes and stepped into the pool, backdropped by a cheesy mural of the Jordan River, giving me a low opinion of religious art. A few words later, down they went, and up they came. I thought it was supposed to be a happy occasion, but folks did not dare clap their hands in church. Another round of Up From the Grave, and we were finally released, which was the best part of the experience.
Now, we headed home for baked ham, scalloped potatoes, corn, green beans, warm rolls, and ice cream. I liked lunch far better than the Supper we shared earlier at church. My mom was a better and more imaginative cook than whoever came up with those little crackers and thimble full of grape juice. (The imbibing of wine was strictly forbidden at my church). And as mom was distracted while making the feast, I sucked down a couple more pounds of candy and got chocolate on my bright white shirt and tie. Then, it was out to play where my imagination took me to the wild, wild west to rescue damsels in distress.
Strangely enough, I reminisce about my formative church years with fondness. I was weekly in the company of my family, including numerous aunts, uncles, cousins, and Grandma Porter. I learned that Jesus and His Church were significant to my parents and extended family members. I learned songs and hymns that wove together stories of life change and extolled the attributes of God. I can still sing many of them by heart. Most importantly, I learned that Jesus does indeed love me along with those who are red and yellow, black, and white because we are all precious in His sight and that He died for my sins and yours. Tomorrow morning sixty years later, I will arise from my slumber and proclaim once again,
Up from the grave, He arose
With a mighty triumph o'er His foes
He arose a Victor from the dark domain
And He lives forever with His saints to reign
He arose! (He arose)
He arose! (He arose)
Hallelujah! Christ arose!
May the miracle of God’s power and love inspire you to peace and joy. May you and yours enjoy a blessed and happy Easter! And may your children absorb a memory that they will fondly recall when they are sixty-seven years young.
Live Inspired!
Don Mark
