Sunrise service …

We all have our memories of Easter – well, those of us who, of course, observe it – and as kids, it honestly had less to do with celebrating a resurrection than it did with all the peripheral activities that become forever burned into our little minds.

Way back when, if you said ‘Easter’ it conjured images of extremely uncomfortable clothing, Easter egg hunts, family pictures, old ladies with fancy hats, uncomfortable dads having to wear ties and fidgety kids who couldn’t wait for church to be over so they could shed those getups and enjoy the holiday weekend.

One of my mother’s favorite events of the time were those sunrise services. You probably remember them. Mama getting you out of bed while it was still dark outside, binding you in that outfit you’d likely only wear once, hustling you off to church for reasons you didn’t quite perceive at the time.

A cool part of my recollection was being able to hold a lit candle without being hollered at as the grownups sang hymns around us and the preacher with his back to the rising sun, telling what must have been a story about Jesus and then, with no small degree of disappointment, you having to blow out the candle.

Among my earliest recollections was wearing this itchy little suit that I instantly hated, then after church wandering by neighbor Jake Berger’s house and climbing into his kiddie pool and soaking that wool outfit as my skin felt like it was on fire.

It’s safe to say it wasn’t one of Mama’s favorite memories, though it took quite an effort for her not to giggle about it and, later in life, realizing my father couldn’t look directly at me because he was laughing his butt off.

Hey, it got me out of the suit and into more comfortable attire so that I could run like crazy around the old Frank Littlejohn Police Club out at the airport with other law enforcement offspring looking for those eggs, one of which was wrapped in gold foil and, with secret clues from my dad, ending up in my basket and garnering me the best prize of the day, a baking soda-fueled rocket.

As I grew older, one of the proudest moments in my Easter memories was getting to be the acolyte at Mouzon Methodist, walking solemnly down the aisle with that stick that had the pull-down wick and lighting the candles on the altar.

Easter through the eyes of a child, besides having more than the weekend off from school, also meant stuff like chocolate bunnies, Cadbury crème eggs, jelly beans, baskets and a giant lunch typically involving a spiral-cut ham, Mama’s potato salad, green beans, fresh-baked bread and a dessert we wouldn’t likely remember because of the imminent candy avalanche.

Of course, the weekend was always heralded not by Maundy Thursday (which we toddlers had no idea about) but by dipping those boiled eggs in dye and filling baskets you knew would ultimately be hidden in the back yard and mostly found.

Yes, it is a significant religious holiday and the more you learned about it as you aged, the more you appreciated the story.

But as a kid, it ran a close second to Christmas.

And the world just seemed like a better place.

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