Easter is an emotional holiday for me. It is the holiday that I miss my daddy most, and oddly so because his life is quite closely woven into other celebrations.
Daddy was born on Christmas Day and passed away on Thanksgiving Day. Factor in Father’s Day just because and it seems odd that Easter would supersede those three.
But it does.
I grew up unwrapping candy-filled, cellophane-covered baskets left by The Bunny on our fireplace hearth. I wore a new dress and white shoes to church, though often mine were Keds tennis shoes because I outgrew fancy and frills fast.
My brothers and I posed for pictures beneath a wooden plaque that advertised “The Echols Family
Dennis, Nancy, Chad, Julie & Jeremy.”
If the weather was nice, we would walk the two blocks to Easter Sunday service.
Other than service on Sunday (Daddy also attended the sunrise one) my family then didn’t observe any Easter season faith rituals. I encountered Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday and Good Friday observances as a young adult.
My family now – Jeff, Abby Kate, Lily and I – embrace those traditions at our church, Trinity Baptist Church in Madison, Alabama. Our ministers are intentional about honoring, and reverently so, Jesus’ last week and His journey to the cross.
The most meaningful worship opportunity for me has become the Good Friday service. It is called “Tenebrae,” which comes from the Latin for “darkness.” I have heard it called the “Service of Shadows.”
This week, my daughter Lily asked if we would “go to the one where they turn out the lights.” It hurt my heart to say “No.”
Another consequence of the Coronavirus.
I almost didn’t take the girls to Tenebrae last year. Fridays, while Jeff was deployed, were my night off. I pajamaed up once the girls walked off the school bus in the afternoon. Dinner was drive-thru or frozen pizza. Screen time was excessive.
It would have been easy, even preferable, to stay home that night. But the spirit of the service – arrive quiet and depart in silence – mirrored my mood so we went.
The girls spotted friends as soon as we arrived and asked to sit close. That put us very near the front pew, an uncomfortable place for a Baptist to be. (I joke. Sort of.)
I settled in.
The order of service listed “An Offering of Prayer.” Our pastor’s wife, Mary, reads every year the names of people listed on our church prayer sheet.
I had forgotten that part.
As Mary began to read, my heart crept into my throat. I was not emotionally prepared for this.
“Jeff Reyburn.”
Her voice cracked as she choked back tears.
My tears fell fast and heavy. I may as well have been standing beneath the cross. I guess I sort of was.
Lily patted my shoulder, whispering “It’s OK, Mommy.”
I received the sweetest text from Mary later that night, apologizing for making me sad. She didn’t know that her emotion was exactly what I needed.
I returned her text:
“Oh, it touched my heart! It has been a bit of a lonely afternoon and your emotion reminded me I am not alone. I prayed this afternoon for a touch of encouragement, and you were it. I am so thankful our girls can see and hear how our church is caring for us.”
I am crying again tonight as I reflect.
The paper program outlining the order of Tenebrae service lay on the corner of my desk for the duration of Jeff’s deployment. I just recently tucked it into my nightstand. I will keep it always, as a reminder that I am not alone.
My daddy is not with me anymore. But Jesus is with me. Tenebrae, and Mary, are a promise of that.
God sends people we can hear and hug, talk to and text, cry with and connect, to remind us we are never alone.
May it always be so.
“It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three, because the sun’s light failed. The curtain of the sanctuary was split down the middle. And Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Father, into Your hands I entrust my spirit.” Saying this, He breathed His last.”
(Luke 23:44-46)
