The memory still hurts my eyes; that morning sun intense against my four-year-old squint. I stood with my Dad and big sister in front of the family car on Jefferson Street in East Greenville. It was a Kodak moment.
Easter morning was upon us and my mother had chosen to dress her daughters alike but different. My mother was quite fashionable... a real trend-setter. So by default, we (her offspring) were small palettes for her wonderful creativity. Let’s just say we were sporting some serious 1960s couture… My shoes were a dazzling yellow and shiny to the point of distraction, their excessive polish causing a hazardous mirroring effect. My sister had a flashy spring green pair. I was loath to be seen, let alone stand alongside my sister thereby accentuating our flamboyancy. And you will note in the photo: my Easter bonnet did not provide ample sun protection for the eyes.
It’s the stuff from which memories are spun. We all have our holiday recollections. Those tidbits which have indelibly defined and marked us. The cobwebs in our brains which serve to connect our small personal stitches to a weaving much much larger and more vibrant. I remember (as though it were yesterday) an Easter table at which my Pennsylvania Dutch grandmother tried to convince me that hot bacon dressing somehow makes backyard dandelion greens palatable. C'mon Grammy, I've SEEN those weeds in the yard. I've WATCHED people from my own tribe trying to DESTROY them. And yet they are on the holiday table in a crystal bowl...
I also have vivid memories of Good Friday services in my family’s very old and wholly traditional church before I became a Mennonite. After a somber gathering and dreadful words about how they crucified Jesus, the pastor in his heavy robes would slam shut his big book and exclaim, “It is finished!” Whoa. My little feet would shuffle out quietly and I’d attempt to go back to my ordinary life. It was a very long week. To my young self, it seemed an eternity until we could return again on Sunday morning for something less tragic. On that glorious day, I’d arrive in my finery with chocolate rabbit on my breath. I’d delight in how the bright purple velvet of Lent was replaced with snowy white cloths across the front of the church. We’d sing Hallelujah and breathe a grateful sigh of relief that it wasn’t “finished” after all. Jesus had risen. He had risen indeed.
I also have vivid memories of Good Friday services in my family’s very old and wholly traditional church before I became a Mennonite. After a somber gathering and dreadful words about how they crucified Jesus, the pastor in his heavy robes would slam shut his big book and exclaim, “It is finished!” Whoa. My little feet would shuffle out quietly and I’d attempt to go back to my ordinary life. It was a very long week. To my young self, it seemed an eternity until we could return again on Sunday morning for something less tragic. On that glorious day, I’d arrive in my finery with chocolate rabbit on my breath. I’d delight in how the bright purple velvet of Lent was replaced with snowy white cloths across the front of the church. We’d sing Hallelujah and breathe a grateful sigh of relief that it wasn’t “finished” after all. Jesus had risen. He had risen indeed.
I’m not sure how old I was when I realized we weren’t crucifying Jesus every year and actually waiting for him to rise from the tomb. But looking back and feeling the sadness of his undeserved death and the weight of my own sin, I know now it was a pretty effective reminder of the heavy price paid for my deliverance.
Salvation is a miraculous gift. How can we not rejoice in that new life in Christ? We've been adopted by a King and given a clean slate. It's ours for the asking...free and clear with no strings attached. An amazingly beautiful thing. And if we want to, we even get to wear shiny shoes to the celebration.
