Easter Berries

by Penny Hunt

     Each Easter Sunday, as dawn brightens the sky, the drape of black placed across our church-yard cross on Good Friday is taken away. In its place, a drape of flowing white appears as a symbol of Christ’s resurrection, while another cross, specially prepared for decorating, is erected nearby. 

            One-by-one, family-by-family we gather for sunrise service, and the auxiliary cross is transformed into a glorious symbol of new life with flowers from gardens around town. Gardens that is—except mine. 

            The azaleas rarely cooperate in time with worthy blooms, the camellias have gone by, and the only color to be seen is the yellow of dandelions teasing me from the lawn. 

            Armed with a pair of garden sheers and determined to find something for the Easter cross, I made a final search of the yard that ended near a holly bush. Accepting defeat I headed toward the house as forlorn as the Little Drummer Boy, with no gift fit to lay before The King.

            Lamenting the lack of a drum, I began dressing for service when the memory of a Christmas message bubbled to the surface of my thoughts. It was a sermon given by the famous southern Bible teacher, Dr. J. Vernon McGee, titled The Cross Is God’s Christmas Tree based on 1 Peter 2:24. “Who Himself bore our sins in His own body on the tree, that we, having died to sins, might live for righteousness—by whose stripes you were healed.” 

            With a quick zip of my dress, I grabbed the garden sheers and hurried back across the yard. I normally thought of the bright red berries nestled among the prickly holly leaves as lovely Christmas greens but now viewed them as something altogether different. 

            Mixed with the gay profusion of flowers proclaiming Easter’s promise of new and eternal life in our risen Lord, the crimson holly berries would be a reminder of the price Christ paid for that promised gift through the shedding of His blood upon the cross of as the once and for all perfect sacrifice for sin. I carefully snipped several clusters of the ruby jewels and joyfully hurried to church with a basket filled with Easter berries.

            What flowers of spring remind you of Jesus at Eastertime? Whatever they may be, dogwood blooms, white lilies, or some other flower, I pray they will remind you of God’s great love for you and wish you a happy and memorable Easter celebration.

Now after the Sabbath, toward the dawn of the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And behold, there was a great earthquake, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. And for fear of him the guards trembled and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucifed. He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples that he has risen from the dead, and behold, he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him. See, I have told you.” So they departed quickly from the tomb with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. And behold, Jesus met them and said, “Greetings!” And they came up and took hold of his feet and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, “Do not be afraid, go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee, and there they will see me.”

He is Risen! He is Risen Indeed!

Blessings to you on this Resurrection Day from your

Word Weavers International Leadership Team.

He’s Wiggling! He’s Alive!
By: Rev. Dr. David L. Haun

 
                 It was Easter Sunday morning. I was four or five years old, dressing myself for Sunday school and Easter Worship. Suddenly Mother was yelling, and Daddy was running. Our pet dog Trouble had stopped breathing. My older sister, Lela, and I stood helpless while Daddy tried to start Trouble breathing, and Mother called the dog doctor.

                Frantically we piled in the car. Mother held our gasping pet while Daddy drove frantically across town to the doctor. Grabbing our friend, Dad ran up the walkway toward the doctor’s house. Sobbing, we watched as he slowed to a stop, turned back toward the car, and shook his head “no.”

                 Four hearts stopped at that moment as tears and sobs erupted in the car.

                 The house door opened, and the doctor called, “Kenneth, bring him in!” In agonizing hope, I remember Daddy running up the porch steps and through the door. I don’t know for sure, but I imagine Mommy prayed while Lela and I sobbed and held hands.

                 Moments that seemed like hours later, the front door opened. Daddy stepped out on the porch with a wiggling bundle of Trouble in his arms. Our pet, which ate most anything, ate something that morning that lodged in his throat, blocking the airway. The doctor had done what dog doctors do, cleared the passage, and got him breathing again.

                 Back in the car, Trouble licked drying tears off our faces and wiggled all over as everyone tried at once to pet him.

                 We missed Sunday school that day. But we made it in time for church, and I remember sitting in the pew between Mother and Daddy silently thanking Jesus for bringing my best friend Trouble back from the grave.

                 Over eighty years have passed since that Easter Sunday morning. And every Easter since, I’ve sat somewhere in a church sanctuary celebrating the miracle of the Resurrection. Each Sunday, as the congregation sings Up from the Grave He Arose, I remember my father walking down the front porch steps carrying a wiggling Trouble. I can see that old dog doctor standing on the porch above with a big smile at the glowing face of a four-year-old boy leaning out the open rear window of an Oldsmobile yelling, “Trouble! Trouble!”

                 Somehow, that memory, while I sing that Resurrection Hymn each Easter Sunday morning, makes the meaning of the Resurrection come alive. And I imagine all the angels smile.

Submitted by: The Reverened Dr. David Haun who is a member of the Fort Lauderdale Word Weavers Chapter.