Easter eggs and empty tombs

Thursday, as I sat in the darkened sanctuary of my church, waiting to share my reading in the service, I looked out at the people sprinkled in the pews. There weren't many of them. A family here, a couple there, some lone worshippers joined with others. And I thought to myself, where is everyone?

Our church had a Maundy Thursday service every year back home. It was always the same, and for a while, when we had Reverend Damon leading us, we had a last supper beforehand, what I now know to be a Seder-type meal. And there was never any question as to whether we'd attend, we always did. If there was a church service, we were there.

Maundy Thursday services were never my favorite. They were sad, dark, and most of all quiet. We had to be quiet throughout, and then leave in silence. I remember a few hushed words and whispers as people would get their coats and move to their cars but there was none of the usual friendliness in the halls I was used to. It bothered me, a lot. Now I know, that was the point. There was no joy in that service, only remembrance and reflection, for we all knew what was going to happen the next day. We all knew the story.

Then on Friday, Good Friday, there was always a community service at a church uptown, right across from the courthouse where my mom worked. The service was always an hour and a half long, divided into three half hour sections so that people who needed to leave to get back to work could come and go. And most of the time there was standing room only. Occasionally my mom would have the day off and we'd go early, securing seats up front in the sanctuary that became familiar to me. It was the place we always went on Good Friday. Always. But there were years we'd have to sneak in the back, and stand or maybe sit in a folding chair, and listen to the various ministers and community members. My dad would drive in from where he worked and sit with us, wearing his uniform, and I remember how important it was that we were all there, together. Even when I went off to college, there was never a question, I made it back for these Holy week services. They were important.

I don't remember much about the services themselves, they were usually very similar, the Bible passages don't change after all, but I do remember the music. Every year we'd sing "Were You There" on Friday: "Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble. Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" But never the last verse.

Some Easter Sundays we'd have a sunrise service, when there was actually no sun out. We'd get up in the dark, my dad would unwind my hair from the pink foam curlers (mom wound, dad unwound) that I slept in all night (well, sleep not so much, in those things), we'd put on our new dresses, our sandals it wasn't quite warm enough for, our hats, and we'd go. There were some years when we had to be a part of the service, or the pancake breakfast at church. There were days we'd be at church for literally six or more hours before we'd get to Easter lunch at Grandma's house. And we never had our egg hunt before church. That was reserved for after, or maybe between services if we'd have enough time to come home before the 10am service. But we always have it. My parents filled plastic eggs with candy and maybe pennies and sprinkled them around the living room. Easiest egg hunt ever. Especially when you're in high school! Easter was never just quietly enjoyed from the pew in our family, it was the busiest church day of the year. And I am so grateful for that.

It's not that we didn't do the secular Easter stuff as well. We did it, big time. We dyed dozens of eggs, usually with my cousin Doris, who'd come from Canada for the holiday. Those are some of my favorite memories, those times of dying the eggs. We'd decorate the entire house with rabbits and chicks and candy and cards. The Easter bunny filled three baskets every year: my parents' big straw basket and Angela's and my small rectangle baskets that my mom had made out of plastic canvas and yarn. Mine is green and has my name on the side. We'd have a big family dinner and eat ham and cheesy potatoes. My Grandma MacDonald would make a lamb cake, complete with coconut on top of the frosting. Easter was a big deal.

And I'm glad for that. So glad. To have both sides of it. Just as with Christmas. I know what Holy Week means. I know the significance of the last supper and the Bible passages and that Good Friday is more than just a day many people get off of work. I know that Easter's not about Peeps and hiding eggs even though that's fun. I know that it's all about that last verse we never sang on Good Friday: "Were you there when God raised him from the tomb? Were you there when God raised him from the tomb? Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble. Were you there when God raised him from the tomb?"

I'm so thankful to my parents and my family for giving me both sides of the holiday. For sending Easter cards and showering us with jelly beans. And yet, more importantly, for sitting me in the pew every Thursday night during Holy Week and reminding me of the gravity of the week's events. The importance of the silence, the song, and most of all, the empty tomb.