Early Easter morning found three of us in our normal spot in church for the first time since the pandemic. Daniel and I have been in the building for Sunday School many times over the past three years but never to a regular service. Not that Easter is a "regular" service; our pastor compared it to the Super Bowl or even a Taylor Swift concert. The choir was on point and the orchestra played superbly, but the most amazing thing for me was scanning a sea of happy, hopeful faces. The world has not felt happy or hopeful in recent months and so the joy of the singers as they bobbed to their hymns, the warm greeting of fellow worshippers, the welcoming waves from good friends a few rows up - all suffused us with a rosy glow.
I admit to feeling twinges of unease at the echoing coughs and sneezes that are so easy to hear in that cavernous space, especially when the crowd fell silent, but if I'm brave enough to go to airports, concerts and swim meets it's definitely time to go back to church. The sermon resonated, too, as Rev Mark prevailed on us to keep hope alive and to keep moving forward.
Our college kids met us at home after the service and watched the online version as we prepared scrambled eggs and pancakes. They sang quietly along to familiar hymns and recited well-worn words of prayer along with us as we moved about the kitchen. Despite the heavy punctuation of non-attendance, the narrative of our family's faith journey still hops along. Though complacency has been jettisoned by cataclysmic events in the world, hope springs eternal alongside the daffodils that mark our Easter table.
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