I remember when I was little. This day would almost always begin the same way: the house would be quiet and breakfast would be waiting for us in the kitchen. We were encouraged to be quiet and keep to ourselves. My grandmother would be in the kitchen with my mother cooking for Easter Sunday, my grandfather would be in his study with the door closed, a rare occasion would find those old wooden doors shut to us. My brother and I would inevitably be outside on the porch or trying desperately to find something to get into. This was a dark, dark morning that I didnt quite understand back then. Now I do; the morning was for mourning, reflection. I think my grandfather needed desperately to understand what the disciples and those who loved Jesus must be going through. Around noon, Grandpa would emerge, Grandma would start singing (God help us all!) and Mom would usually set about helping us dye eggs or plant flowers. The radio was turned on or records were spinning and the house came alive. The afternoon was for celebrating what we knew was coming: That in just a few hours, the man that we mourned would be the savior that was resurrected. I miss celebrating Easter Saturday in that creaky old house. It was Saturday that taught me was Easter was all about...
Posted on: Sat, 19 Apr 2014 15:40:35 +0000
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