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Easter Sunday

I was about seven in this Easter Sunday photo. We always went to church, but first we enjoyed Mom’s homemade hot cross buns. I loved the soft bread and especially liked the white icing that crossed the tops of each one.

Earlier that morning, we had hunted for our hard-boiled colored eggs—and then we got into our Easter outfits. Mom wore her white gloves and pinned an orchid corsage on her pastel-colored jacket. Dad wore his suit and tie, but he wasn’t in our picture because he was the cameraman.

Our church was extra full on Easter. The pastor welcomed everyone at the double doors, and ushers were busy seating folks.

Were times simpler then? Probably not, there were young men from our town fighting in Viet Nam. But it was different, because news didn’t travel at internet speeds. No one had phones in pockets or emails to answer.

After church, we went home to the smell of ham roasting in the oven, and long distance phone calls from grandparents. Candles were lit in Mom’s floral centerpiece she’d handpicked from our yard, and Dad prayed over our meal. Tomorrow would be a school day, a work day, and a return to normal day.

But for now, it was the day we celebrated Jesus defeating death. I didn’t fully understand it, yet I had the reassurance that what I didn’t know, I would learn in time. And that steady reassurance has grown with me, Easter by Easter.


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