For an Easter person, early memory lives like yesterday

By Kathy Yoder

From a land not so far away and a time not so long ago, a memory floats to the surface. It’s early in the morning when the darkness is inky black and no light seeps in. Sleep is interrupted to don a scratchy dress that moves on its own, independent of the person residing within. No flowing movements. More like walking inside stiff sheets of cardboard whose will must be obeyed.

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A hat with an elastic string tucks under the chin and takes the entire head prisoner, as the hat refuses to move from its assigned seating. Any movement puts the ears on alert as they engage in a competitive tug-of-war with the string.

Scrubbed feet sporting clean, white, frilly socks dive into pinchy shoes that are too shiny for this hour of the day, but in the darkness even the shininess disappears. Laboriously, the shoe straps are buckled in place. Little white gloves dipped in ruffles go on last, making nose scratching challenging. (It’s an irrefutable law of nature that the minute the gloves go on, the nose itches.)

My brothers and I move like zombies towards the car. No sunlight because the sun has the sense to sleep in a little longer. We sit in the back seat, elbow to elbow to elbow, collectively not making a peep as our parents drive us to church.

Walking up to our church I hear only the clickety clack, clickety clack rhythmic sound of my shoes slapping the sidewalk. Not one bird is singing. Not one leaf is moving. Not one squirrel is running up and down a tree. Sitting in the pew, I feel so small. The sanctuary seems to go on forever. I strain to see the pastor, my pastor, up front. Dressed in a long flowing robe, he stands still and quiet. In fact, everything is a hush. As if the world itself has paused for a brief moment in time. People, nature, even the creaking of the wood has ceased. Waiting. Anticipating. Wondering. Expecting. Revering.

Then as the sunlight streams through the stained glass windows, we sing an Easter hymn full of triumph and joy. The mournful songs of the previous weeks are forgotten as our collective voices become like … Read more: click here

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