Easter

Ironic that Easter, a celebration of a resurrection, is forever linked in my mind with the death of my father. He did not die near Easter, but the last service he presided over was the Easter service. Holy Week was a busy time in our house. His busiest work week, more so even than Christmas. Easter services are often sad ones, held in the dark and quiet of a pensive church, toward the end of a Lenten season of prayer and reflection. The congregation dresses in somber colors, and speak in hushed tones. Then Easter Sunday, all turn out shined and polished in brights and pastels, wearing shiny patent leather shoes. The light, the sun, life itself has been resurrected and all is shiny and new again. I do not go to church anymore, as I am not certain I believe in the God that is worshipped there any longer. If ever I did. Sometimes I wonder if I went to church more to worship my father than God. I will never get my own Easter Sunday. My father cannot come back. But I still worship him.