I had never been one to brag. But had I been, I’d have made it known that of all the dresses the girls wore to church that Easter morning, mine was the finest. Sure, Ethel from school had the same lavender with tiny white flower print on her dress as mine did. And maybe Hazel’s had been store-bought from someplace in Toledo.
But mine had the pretty posy buttons and a ribbon of white that Mama had taken off one of her old dresses to sew all the way around the waist.
I looked all about the church that morning before the first hymn got started. There were more folks in the pews than usual. Aunt Carrie’d told me that would be the case. People always made sure to be in church on Easter Sunday. They might not come any other week of the year, but they’d hold down a pew to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus.
It was better than nothing, at least that was what I thought.
We sang more hymns that morning than usual, which was fine by me. The organ player had done something to make his music louder and I kept checking the ceiling to see if the roof was like to blow away for how loud he boomed on those keys.
The way all the folks standing in that congregation sang, it felt as if all the bad in the world had gotten itself made right and all the hurt healed up. Uncle Gus stood on the other side of Aunt Carrie from me but I could still see how he rocked on the balls of his feet when he sang “Up from the grave He arose,” and Mama’s voice to the right of me rang out so clear and loud I’d have believed nothing awful could ever happen again.
The preacher stepped out from behind the pulpit after the song ended and put his hands up, palms out. I waited for him to lower them so we’d all know to sit down, but he kept them up, a big old grin on his face and a warm sparkle in his eyes.
For being one of calm and soft voice, that day he didn’t hold back. He spoke louder than I’d have thought possible for him.
“Christ is risen,” he hollered.
“He is risen, indeed,” the rest of the folks around me called, almost making me jump in surprise.
“Christ is risen,” the preacher called out again.
“He is risen, indeed!”
“Christ is risen!”
“He is risen, indeed!”
For some reason I couldn’t have explained just then if I’d tried, my heart felt full and I worried that I was about to cry for how happy I was. I’d never felt love for anything or anybody like I felt it for Jesus just then. I swallowed, trying to hold the crying in the middle of my throat.
He was risen. He truly was.
The very best ending to any story ever committed to paper.
But, lowering down to the pew, smoothing my skirt under me so it wouldn’t bunch up and wrinkle, I knew Easter wasn’t the end of the story.
It was just the middle. And I’d read enough stories in my day to learn that the middle can trick the person reading it into thinking everything’s going to be a-okay. That nothing bad is lurking around the corner just waiting to attack.
Jesus was risen. He was risen, indeed. And He’d spend time with His disciples and teach them a couple last things before getting Himself pulled up to heaven to get a place prepared for all His friends just beyond the pearly gates and a piece down the street of gold.
But for his disciples there were beatings to come and shipwrecks. His friends would get whupped and stoned and kicked out of town. They had more than their share of heartaches coming and they just did not know it. Because they were Easter-Sunday-happy they couldn’t think anything would go wrong ever again.
I sat there in the pew between Mama and Aunt Carrie on that sunshine morning, fit to bust for how happy I was. And scared half to death of what bad thing might be waiting just around the corner.
I had no doubt, the bad would come.