Holy Week begins with Palm Sunday and concludes with Easter, which always brings out the “A and P” Christians, short for ashes and palms. Holy Week is also spring break, which, until this year, was Dad’s busy season. But even this year we weren’t going anywhere for all the obvious reasons: death and taxes. Good Friday is a part of that week, and if you ask me, it’s an oxymoron. What’s so good about a day you remember someone’s death? Hadn’t we spent months now doing that? And look where it got us.
But Mom and Miss Patti were hosting Uncle Troy and Miss Mary Frances, Dad, Matt, and me for Easter dinner, and so on top of doing her taxes, Mom was getting Miss Patti’s house ready and planning Sunday’s menu.
On the Wednesday before Easter, Rita and Miss Patti were already up and dressed and ready to go somewhere. Rita said she couldn’t play and Miss Patti told Mom she didn’t need her that day. Nearly two months of sleepovers had gone by and maybe they were tired of us. Mom argued they had work to do to make the April 15 deadline, but Miss Patti and Rita had a resolve I couldn’t understand. “Go work on your dinner plans.”
“It’s a special day for us. Something we do every year,” Rita explained. I must have looked hurt because then Rita spilled the secret. “It’s April seventh. It’s Daddy’s birthday,” she whispered. I raised my eyebrows. Daddy’s birthday?
Patti then filled in the gaps. “Jeff restored an automobile. I keep it in the garage. It’s about all we have left of his. We take it out on his birthday and Father’s Day. We keep it alive. Or him alive. It’s just something we do.”
Mom nodded, but I could tell she looked confused. A hidden car?
That afternoon Miss Patti and Rita headed out the back door toward the alley. Miss Patti opened the garage and they disappeared, only to reappear in the most amazing car I had ever seen. Mom’s eyes widened. It was a shiny red and white automobile with huge fenders, whitewall tires, and no top. Truly, it looked like it could fly.
Miss Patti gave it a real honk and then Rita leaned back in her seat and wrapped her scarf around her neck like a movie star.
“What is that?” I asked Mom.
“I don’t know, but I think they call it a speedster.” She shook her head in amazement. They blew by us and I felt a sense of longing. I wanted to race the wind with them and bring someone back to life with the turn of a key. Oh, to be riding along in the most incredible automobile in Bethel Springs. Especially since we didn’t even have a car anymore.
Mom and I could have gone back inside, but instead we sat on the front steps, waiting for their return. Uncle Troy came down the sidewalk, whistling through his teeth.
“Now that’s somethin’ else,” he said, staring down the road. “A 1936 Auburn Boattail Speedster. I thought I saw one of those once before. Maybe even on this street.” How did Uncle Troy know something about everything?
“They take it out once or twice a year,” I said, as if I also knew something about everything. He whistled through his teeth again and then looked at Mom in that serious way he did before a church talk.
“Look, I want to help you out however I can, and I don’t think most people know,” he began. “But I know you’re here, not there.” He nodded at Miss Patti’s and then the parsonage.
Mom bit her lip and then looked from me to Uncle Troy and back at me.
“I’m going home. To our house,” I explained. “I’m going over there,” I added, as if I needed to, and left them talking.
“You feel okay?” Matt asked when I slammed the door behind me.
“I should be asking you that question,” I snapped. He had stitches in his forehead and one broken rib, but the doctor said otherwise he was in pretty good shape and a very lucky guy. For some reason “very lucky” had made Matt look sad. What made some accidents unlucky?
I followed Matt to the washing machine, where he proceeded to put everything from his laundry bag in one load. He could do it his way. What did I care?
“Miss Patti has a 1936 Boattail Speedster she keeps in her garage.”
“No kidding,” Matt said. “I’ve never seen one of those.”
“I don’t know why I told you that.”
“I’m not going to steal it.”
“That would certainly get everybody’s attention.”
Matt poured detergent in the machine, turned the dial, and dropped the lid with a bang.
That Sunday morning, right before church, Mom put a ham and scalloped potatoes in Miss Patti’s oven. In between tax returns, Mom had also baked hot cross buns and made Matt’s favorite marshmallow and mandarin orange Jell-O salad.
Last year we had hunted for eggs and even Matt had participated. He hid our decorated eggs for Joel and me to find. I avoided the obvious eggs, knowing Matt had “hidden” them for a three-year-old. But some were clearly my eggs: the ones high in the branches, the one in the downspout, and the one in the mailbox. Mom helped Joel find the eggs, but he only wanted the orange ones, disappointed by all other colors.
That same Easter someone had asked Dad about whether it was appropriate to have Easter egg hunts and Dad smiled. “New life,” he added. “Finding new life in Christ.” Back then Dad always had an easy answer for everything.
This Easter, we didn’t decorate any eggs. This Easter, Dad wasn’t in the pulpit, but he did join us in the balcony. “You can see everything from up here!” I encouraged, hoping he’d see church the way I did. Miss Patti and Rita sat in my row, both wearing dresses, which was rare. Once pants were allowed in school, Rita had never looked back. Now she scratched at her legs as if her stockings were eating holes in her skin.
The sanctuary was crowded with men in suits, women in new spring dresses, and little girls with hats and gloves. I’ve always worn hand-me-downs from the Douglas girls. This year’s installment was a yellow gingham dress with puffy sleeves.
“Christ is risen!” Reverend Davidson announced with cheer.
“He is risen, indeed!” the congregation answered.
“Let us now sing ‘Christ the Lord Is Risen Today.’”
“Alleluia!” I whispered to that. I wanted Rita to like the hymns. Christmas Glorias and Easter Alleluias were my favorites.
Miss Patti stood next to Mom and mouthed the words. Rita tried to figure out the music staff. I giggled each time she read one line and dropped to the wrong verse. Matt stared down at his hymnal, but I sang out, hoping Dad would, too. Most of all, I wanted him to like church again.
“He is risen!” Reverend Davidson repeated.
“He is risen, indeed!” the congregation echoed. When we sat down, I pointed out where we were in the program to Rita and Miss Patti, who were not very good at the Presbyterian stand up/sit down stuff. And as a matter of fact, Miss Patti had pretty much decided she could stay seated and sing instead of getting up and down all the time.
Though I wanted to doodle or play games, Matt had his eyes closed like he was about to fall asleep, and Dad was watching everything as if he had never really been to church before.
Reverend Davidson assumed the podium and opened his Bible with the rustle of onionskin pages. I loved that familiar sound. The scripture reading for that Sunday was about Mary Magdalene’s arrival at the tomb and how she didn’t recognize Jesus.
“Did Mary Magdalene go to the tomb to find a risen Lord?” the minister said. “No, Mary Magdalene came to anoint a dead body,” he said. “Mary was so certain Jesus was dead that she didn’t recognize the resurrected Lord when He appeared in front of her.” What about us? Would we be able to recognize Joel in heaven?
Heaven frightened me. Each time I imagined on and on and on with no end, my stomach rolled and I felt dizzy. There was something good about day and night and seasons and stops and starts. What would it be like to spend eternity without any control over time? I tried to picture the happiest day of my life and imagined it going on forever. Was heaven like that?
And what would we be like in heaven? Would Joel be a kid and me an old lady? I sighed and Dad looked at me and mouthed, What? I shook my head and looked down. Maybe we could talk about it later. Then again, maybe not.
“In what ways are you returning to tombs with gloom in your heart when we can claim victory on Easter Sunday?” Reverend Davidson concluded, his voice rising in power and volume. I wasn’t sure he needed a mike.
Mrs. Tangan was listed for special music and I looked down the pew toward Matt and we both rolled our eyes. Mrs. Tangan’s hair was ratted so high, a bird could have lived inside, which might have explained her high soprano warble. We used to mimic her on the way home from church, increasing the vibrato with each verse. Today she sang her annual special music selection, which began with “Low in the grave he lay,” a dark and ominous verse that erupted into the happy chorus “Up from the grave He arose!” and an ascent that scaled a full octave. “Hallelujah! Christ arose!” Mrs. Tangan sang, beaming.
Reverend Davidson’s message about Mary Magdalene was just about as good a message as he had ever delivered. It was Easter Sunday and my greatest hope was that it had resurrected something in Dad.
“Can you girls put the napkins on the table?” Mom asked when we got home. Rita and I began folding each pale blue square, setting one at each plate.
“That rose and gravy song was kind of interesting,” Rita said, a teasing lilt to her voice.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, taking the bait.
Rita smiled playfully. She was the nicest friend anyone could ask for, but she was mischievous, and because we sometimes read each other’s minds, it just happened.
“Up from the GRAVY a ROSE!” we belted at the same time but different pitches, loudly and proudly, until Miss Mary Frances reprimanded us for not respecting Mrs. Tangan’s God-given talent and courage. After that, even the sight of Mom’s potatoes made me bite my lip.
“Uncle Troy, would you say grace?” Mom asked.
Uncle Troy looked at Dad and then around the table and bowed his head. At his “Amen,” I cased out my favorite dishes.
“So, what did you think of Reverend Davidson’s message?” Miss Mary Frances said. “And please pass the scalloped potatoes,” she added with equal importance.
“Thank goodness we’re not having gravy,” I whispered, and then Rita and I got to giggling. Miss Mary Frances frowned.
“It was nice to have the focus on a woman,” Miss Patti answered, smiling at Miss Mary Frances and then shaking her head at the two of us. “Seems to me that the men always get the most press in the Easter story, but this story is really about a woman,” she explained as she passed the hot cross buns to her right. “Can I get anyone some jam?” she asked. “That’s why Mary Magdalene’s my favorite.”
“How about you, Matt?” I asked, looking down the table. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Judas,” he said without missing a beat.
“Seriously, Matt.”
“Okay, then maybe the guys around Jesus on the cross,” he answered.
“Which one?” I persisted. “Please say the guy who goes to paradise.”
“That one.”
Maybe there was hope for Matt yet.
“I like Peter,” Miss Mary Frances piped in. “Even though nobody bothered to ask me,” she scolded, and then paused so we’d have a chance for a follow-up question.
“Why Peter?” Mom asked politely.
“Because Peter hung around,” Miss Mary Frances said. “He denied Him, yes, but he stuck closer than those other cowardly disciples.”
Miss Mary Frances always had a fresh way of seeing things.
“But don’t forget John,” Uncle Troy said. “Jesus asks him to be Mary’s son.”
“As if anyone could replace Jesus,” Mom said.
“John is Jesus’ beloved friend. That’s what I’d like to be.” Uncle Troy spoke honestly.
“This is nice,” Miss Patti said. “I think I could go to church if people were allowed to ask a few questions like we’re doing right now. And I think I might listen to someone who didn’t act like he had all the answers.”
“Those potatoes look delicious, Renee,” Dad said, changing the subject and offering Mom a smile. “Could you pass them down?” That triggered the gravy song, and I forgot Miss Mary Frances’s warning and started humming it until Rita kicked me under the table. Dad took two heaping helpings on his plate; he had obviously missed Mom’s cooking as much as Matt had.
The room went quiet as we all enjoyed our favorites except Rita, who seemed to be trying to decide what she wanted next. “I guess it’s not so bad to lose someone if He comes back in three days,” she said. Quiet Rita. The one-who-rarely-talks-Rita, piping in with some deep thought, when before all she could hear was gravy and roses. I nearly choked on my hot cross bun.
Dad, who had been strangely quiet about anything except food, nodded an unspoken understanding.
“Now that’s a thought, Rita,” Miss Patti said to fill the space widening the table like a leaf added for holiday dinner.
“But I think even if we knew the plan, it’d still be hard to watch someone suffer and die,” Dad concluded.
Even Miss Mary Frances was silenced. Uncle Troy took another bite so he wouldn’t have to say anything. Mom took the empty ham tray to the kitchen, and I pointed to the ambrosia salad that barely made it back around the table to me as everyone served up generous portions.
“And what’s next on the church calendar?” Miss Patti asked from her end of the table. That could be taken a lot of ways.
“Ascension, then Pentecost,” Dad answered from the head of the table. “The gift of the Holy Spirit.”
“The one Jesus called the Comforter, am I right?” Patti asked, looking straight at Dad. She was right and she knew it, and her point was not lost on any of us.
“They lose the Son and gain the Comforter?” she repeated. I remembered Pentecost as tongues of fire now aptly demonstrated over Easter dinner.
Miss Mary Frances’s eyes widened, Uncle Troy cleared his throat into his napkin, and Rita hummed our song as Mom passed the ham for another round.
“And the beginning for the Church,” Miss Patti added, to my surprise. By her firm tone, this was not a definition but an encouraging proposal.
My Easter was about being lost and found. It was about a Comforter. About hope and life, and the birth of a Church, and resurrecting dreams even when nobody quite knew how. But we were together and we were talking. And something about that felt—for now—almost good enough.