My grown daughters are both self-confessed atheists. My former husband would rather be in the woods, slogging around listening to the toads mate than in church. My brothers and sisters all died knowing this, this life, this is it.
And sometimes it’s hard to hold up this faith all by myself.
Church people don’t make it any easier. The churches I attend are over-populated with self-congratulating couples, trotting about in matching Sunday outfits, chatting nonstop about their fabulous getaways to the latest bed and breakfast, or their wonderful dinner party last night with Garrison Keillor and his darling wife. What was her name again?
I kid you not. This is what Presbyterians do for fun.
So, here I am, facing the Big One. The Resurrection Sunday. The holiday for which all other Sundays were born.
Christ is Risen – (as the signs say, he is risen “indeed.” I always giggle when I see that word…) and those of us who still believe in the power of the faith and the strength of the eternal metaphor – those of us who have taken vows and who hold them fast in every bargain — we want to be in the front row.
I’ll be there again this year. Alone.
Wearing, as always the obligatory Easter bonnet with all the frills and a big smile for all the kiddies in their cute little pastel frocks and over sized baby-sport coats.
And I’m glad he is risen. Indeed, I am.
My wish is for the church to rise as well. When it does, I’ll have a leg to stand on when I, once again, try to lure my wayward people back to worship.