A little more tender than usual this Easter morning, and grateful for it. Easter memories, faith, family, and the Sunday that changed everything I thought I knew about this day.
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I am not entirely sure what has gotten into me this week.
It could be hormones, though in this day and age they are blamed for everything so I am a little reluctant to lay it all at their door. It could be the ailing family members I am holding in my heart right now, or the trips down memory lane I have been taking lately on the blog. It could simply be the season itself, which has a way of cracking something open if you let it.
Whatever the reason, I have been emotional this week in the way that sneaks up on you. A hymn during the Maundy Thursday service that was so haunting and beautiful and I was undone. Something on the Hallow app that stopped me mid-scroll and I felt it land somewhere deep. I wrote the Dear Woman post on my grandmother’s birthday and afterward my mother and my siblings started sharing memories — happy ones, sad ones, funny ones, and the ones that live in the space between all three — and something about that opened a door I had not meant to open quite so wide.
I am not complaining. This is not that kind of post.
This is just me, on Easter morning, a little more tender than usual.
Do You Remember Sunday Best?
Easter when I was growing up meant baskets first — found in the morning, that particular Easter morning excitement of coming downstairs to see what had appeared overnight. What if the Easter bunny forgot us while hopping down the bunny trail? Then the getting dressed, which was its own ceremony. We wore dresses. We wore bonnets when we were small and hats when we were older, because my formative years were the Princess Diana era and hats were simply what you did. I loved it — and the hats too. My mother believed in dressing for occasions and Easter was one of the great occasions. Sunday Best was not a quaint expression in our house. It was just what we did and still do.
Do families still do this? I hope so — and I am happy to report that they do where I worship. There is something about putting on your good dress for a holy day that feels right in a way I cannot fully articulate — as if the act of dressing with intention is itself a kind of reverence. A way of saying: this day is different. This day matters.
The Church I Measure All Others By
Then we went to Mass.
I grew up Catholic and my family church was old — old brick, the kind of old that holds the cold even in summer, the kind that smells of incense and candle wax and something else that has no name but that you would recognize immediately if you walked back into it after thirty years. We had a cantor whose voice could stop you mid-breath — I can still hear it in my mind. Parts of the Mass were still in Latin. There was pageantry and there was reverence and every time I walked through those doors — as a child, and still now when I go back home — it wraps around me like a hug and I am ten years old again.
That church is the one I have measured every other church against. Every move in adulthood meant a new search — a new city, a new neighborhood, a new attempt to find the place that felt like that. A little like Goldilocks and the three bears, honestly. This one too formal. This one too casual. This one almost but not quite. And then the one.
You know when you find the one because you cry. I cannot explain it any better than that. There is a moment of sitting in the pew and feeling something settle that had been unsettled, and the tears come quietly and without embarrassment because they are not sad tears. They are the tears of recognition. Of coming home.
In Virginia Beach it happened and a woman in the pew nearby put her hand on my arm and said, without me saying a word, you are home. She knew. She had felt it too.
I felt it here at the Village Chapel too, even though it is not a Catholic church. The feeling does not belong to a denomination. It belongs to something older than any of them.
He Is Risen
Today is Easter. The bunny is part of it — the baskets and the eggs and the children in their finery — and I am not dismissing any of that because those things are pure joy. And joy is not a little thing. But underneath all of it, underneath the bonnets and the baskets and the Easter table and the ham and the flowers, is the reason for the day.
He is risen.
I have been thinking about Easter differently since one particular Sunday morning several years ago. I was driving into the church parking lot, in my Easter dress, running a few minutes behind. As I turned in I came upon an accident that had just happened — an older couple turning in from the other direction had been t-boned by a car of young men. Their car had slammed into a tree.
I jumped out. A man on a motorcycle coming from the other direction did the same. We ran.
I reached the passenger side first. An older woman was in the seat, reclined, her hands folded in her lap as if she were simply resting. She was dressed in her Easter finery — her good dress, her best, the way my mother always taught us to dress for this day. There was not a mark on her. She looked entirely peaceful.
And as I stood there with the phone to my ear, waiting for 911 to connect, I felt her leave.
I felt her leave. I don’t know how to describe it any other way. I simply felt it. She was there and then she was not. I told the dispatcher she was already gone. I told them to send help for the man.
We went around to the driver’s side then, the motorcyclist and I, and helped the man out of the car which was leaking fluid. He was connected to an oxygen canister. He was very confused and frightened and we stayed with him and talked to him as gently as we could while we waited for the ambulance. The young men who had caused the accident were sitting on the curb nearby. They were teenagers. They were crying. I cannot imagine what they were carrying in that moment and I have thought of them many times since.
I did not make it to Mass that Easter. I stayed to give my statement to the police, and by the time I was done I was too shaken to go anywhere but home.
I left town the next day to visit family. When I came back two weeks later and walked into church and opened my missal, a funeral card fell out.
It was hers.
I do not know how it got there. I had not been in that church in two weeks. No one knew what I had witnessed. And yet there it was — her name, her face, a card placed inside the book I would open the moment I returned.
I believe God was letting me know that she was home. That she was well. That the peaceful thing I had felt standing beside that car was exactly what it seemed to be.
I have never forgotten her. I never will. And every Easter since, when I put on my good dress and drive to church, I think of her in her Easter finery with her hands folded and I think — yes. This is what the day is about. Not just the promise of it. The reality of it. The thing that makes the darkness of Friday and the silence of Saturday bearable.
He is risen. She is risen. We will all rise.
I believe it. Today more than most days, I believe it.
Happy Easter, friends. May your baskets be full and your table be beautiful and your heart be a little cracked open, the way mine is today — because I have learned, slowly and with some resistance, that the cracked-open heart is the one that lets the light in.
Tell me about your Easter memories in the comments. The dress, the church, the basket, the table. I would love to hear all of it.
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This is a beautiful post. Happy Easter, Elizabeth. We missed you this week.
Thank you Mary Ann!
I hope that you are having a lovely Easter weekend in St. Simon.
I hope to be at the next summit!
Beautiful story. Happy Easter Elizabeth from VA.
Gray, thank you! Happy Easter in VA!
He is risen indeed.
What a profound experience.
Georgia,
Happy Easter! It was one of the moments in your life that changes your perspective on so many things.
Beautiful story, Elizabeth. Happy Easter. xo
Thank you Juliet!
Happy Easter friend.
xo
Oh, Elizabeth, what a beautiful post. Someone once told me that when you are moved to cry in church that it is the Holy Spirit in you. So you’re right, you are home. I just said a prayer for those teen-age boys. We know that the lady is with Jesus, but what a terrible thing to live with for the rest of their lives. God blessed you when you found her card in your missile. I’ve received gifts like that at times in my life, too. It always amazes me how loved we are. When I think that Jesus had to suffer because of my sins, I am reminded to be more loving and forgiving. Especially to people who are hard to love and forgive.
My grandparents were Polish and lived in a Polish neighborhood. I remember going to church with her on Holy Saturday for the Blessing of the Baskets. You would smell ham, kielbasa and homemade bread and rolls from all those huge baskets the women brought to be blessed. It was wonderful! Of course, on Easter Sunday we went to mass dressed in our best. I always got new patent leather shoes, a dress, hat and even white gloves! Easter is still my favorite holiday. Thank you for sharing your feelings and memories. Have a blessed day.
Ellen,
I have never heard that, but I do hope that it is true. I love the idea of the Holy Spirit in my soul. I read a book once about God Winks, and I think the prayer card in the missal was one. God works in mysterious ways and I feel so blessed when I have one of those moments. I think about that woman and her husband and those boys. I never heard anything about them after the accident.
Where were your grandparents from? My family is from a very an area that was mostly Polish, German and Italian. I have never heard of the blessing of the baskets, what a beautiful tradition.
Easter is a special holiday, enjoy your beautiful memories.
Have a blessed day and a wonderful week.
My Grandmother (we called her Busha and we called my Great-grandmother Busha-Busha!) was from Krakow. I can’t remember where my Grandfather was from but it was somewhere in the mountains. My Grandmother used to call him a hillbilly! We also called my other Grandmother Busha. She wasn’t Polish at all but my older cousins started calling her Busha because they had a Polish neighbor. So, I had 3 Bushas! I’m so happy to hear that you felt well enough to celebrate Easter. I love reading your blog!
Ellen, I love that name Busha! Even better to have three Bushas. Grandparents are so special and the memories and joy we have from our time with them is like no other.
Have a wonderful week and thank you for sharing.
what a beautiful post you wrote today…and especially the experience with the feeling of that woman ‘going home’ and then her card in your Bible afterwards. Made me tear up.
I grew up in the 50-60’era. We always had Easter baskets when we came down in the morning and an egg hunt in the house. Then we donned our Easter dress, gloves, hat etc. in the dress that my mother and grandmother had made. That memory of them cutting and sewing together before Easter is one I cherish. Of course a family dinner afterwards usually with our grandparents on the farm with cousins and Aunts and Uncles present.
I will wear a dress today and although I didn’t grow up Catholic but Protestant in the Christian Church, Disciple of Christ denomination which practices weekly communion, I love my church and its vision. We are an American frontier born church and have long roots going back to the 1800’s.
Have a blessed day and many moment of beauty and joy.
Nanci,
Thank you for sharing your Easter memories and snippets of your life and faith. My mother and grandmother made clothes for me too. In fact I still have the last item, a velvet skirt that my grandmother made for me over 30 plus years ago and I will never part with it.
I feel blessed that I could be there are that woman went home to God, I know that he welcomed her with open arms.
I was raised Catholic, my husband Presbyterian. The Chapel that we currently attend is over 125 years old.
Have a blessed Easter and a wonderful week.
Such a wonderful story. It helped make this day more meaningful to me.
Anne, thank you! That is very kind of you to say.
I hope that you had a blessed and happy Easter.
He is risen indeed! The Lenten season and Easter become more meaningful each year as I age. God has destroyed death, and He will restore our life to life eternal. Thank you for sharing your faith & being a witness to many, Elizabeth.
Linda, Amen! He is Risen and we are all blessed.
Have a wonderful Easter!
What a lovely and heartfelt post.
Jeannie,
Thank you! Have a blessed and happy Easter.
Such a strong testament to God’s grace. This morning we were leaving Mass and a much older woman was on her way in to the next service. Although a bit frail, she was dressed beautifully in pale pink, hat and pearl jewelry. I smiled and wished her a Happy Easter and told her how lovely she looked. She then asked if I would take her picture. After we finished the photos, we said goodbye. I said to my husband said “All alone, I hope she has someone to send the photos to.” And he replied, “but you made her day and she made yours.” Gos is good.
Suzanne,
Thank you for sharing this beautiful story. I am sure that your husband is correct, you made that ladies day! What a gift on Easter knowing that someone, you, saw her, acknowledged her and took the time to talk to her and let her know. That story brought tears to my eyes.
I hope that you have a blessed and lovely day.
Beautiful
Thank you Nanci,
A happy and blessed Easter to you.
He is risen indeed!
I love your blog. My Mom was one of fourteen children; eleven survived childhood. We were wealthy with family – grands, aunts, uncles and cousins all over the place! It was wonderful! Many of these are gone, but the memories of those events are precious. We just returned from a glorious church service – beautiful music with drums and trumpets, two choirs, bells and a wonderful service.
Happy Easter!
Georgia,
Drums, and trumpets, that sounds amazing. We had a bagpiper, choir and the most beautiful organ music. Music is a gift and such an integral part of these celebrations.
Family is so special and a blessing. How wonderful to have had so many aunts, uncles, cousins. I am sure that like me, you have many happy memories and stories to tell.
Have a blessed Easter and a wonderful day.
I have been pretty emotional all weekend – I think just reflecting on what Christ did for us all. This post just sent it over the top. The tears won’t stop. Thank you for all your beautiful posts. Happy Easter!
Sandy,
I have been the same, in fact at mass this morning I was crying. The sermon put me over the top.
Thank you for your kind comment.
I hope that you had a lovely Easter and a wonderful week.
Elizabeth, this was so beautiful. I, too, remember dressing in our Sunday best for church every Sunday, but especially Easter. I always wore a hat. I was quite moved by the story about the car accident. You write beautifully and have a gift for sharing insights, Elizabeth. Thank you for doing that, I very much enjoy readying your blog. Your essays always make me think, in the best ways.
Ellen, thank you. That is very kind of you to say.
Dressing for church on Sunday is one of my favorite things to do, especially on the holidays. So many memories of time with family and friends. I did not wear a hat this Easter and I missed it.
I think of that woman and her husband often and I can tell you that even today when I think about it I feel my heart racing. It was actually a very traumatic experience.
Have w wonderful week and thank you for reading Pinecones and Acorns.
Oh, Elizabeth, what a beautiful post! It brought tears my eyes. And yes, I too have had “surprise tears” sitting in a pew, before or during Mass, the intense almost ache of feeling of belonging. Thank you for sharing your stories, and your faith. Happy Easter.
He has risen. This is a beautiful post and brought back dear memories. Easter is day above all days and brings such hope more than ever. Thank you and may your day be perfect for you.
Claudette, he has risen indeed. I hope that you had a lovely Easter and that the memories were happy and filled with love.
Have a wonderful week.