Easter at Paul's Pancake Parlor, Round Two

When the family is divided and the holidays are stripped of their traditions, what is left? (A BONUS POST FOR EASTER)

Paul’s Pancake Parlor, table for one, was not my idea of a fabulous Easter dinner, but Easter was different that year. Emergency brain surgery tends to change everything.

Sweet and Savior-y

The Easter Sundays of my childhood started early in the morning with cheap chocolate bunnies, gluey jellybeans, and bland hard-boiled eggs with bits of brightly colored shell still clinging to them like crunchy confetti. After our traditional holiday breakfast of champions, we donned crisp new clothes and tried to remain upright and stoic as Mom coerced our hair into place. Because it was the 1970s in the Midwest and the seasonal dress code was carved into Moses’ lesser-known set of stone tablets, we also buckled on the obligatory new white shoes.

Once everyone was properly outfitted, we lined up on the front step for an awkward family photo, then loaded into the family car and headed to church. There, we quietly commiserated with the other overly dressed kids with stiff white shoes, all of us struggling to remain vaguely cherubic while the predawn sugar rush still coursed through our veins. 

The mood in the church sanctuary was always celebratory on Easter Sunday as we greeted one another upon arrival. Everyone was dressed in their finest—white shoes as far as the eye could see, pastel polyester leisure suits on the men, and bonnets on the women. Once the service began, we sang with gusto about how we served a risen Savior, and how Christ the Lord is risen today (which I always thought was weird, because I was under the impression, even as a kid, that it had happened a long time ago).

Eventually, the organist on one side and the pianist on the other stopped playing and looked up to the platform expectantly. Assistant pastor Jess Burton would step away from the pulpit, microphone in hand, and pause—waiting for the instrumental backing track to begin. It was the moment we all looked forward to year after year, his traditional Easter “special number, a dramatic rendition of Don Francisco’s “He’s Alive,” a narrative song from the perspective of Peter, one of Jesus’ disciples.

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New Generation, New Traditions

When my own kids were young, I wanted Easter morning to be different. My husband and I couldn’t entirely drop the chocolate bunnies thing (grown-ups also like candy), but we did move the egg hunt and baskets to Saturday. We set aside Sunday for celebrating the Resurrection. Over time, we established an Easter morning tradition, one which lasted for many years: I would awaken the kids early and, bleary-eyed, we threw on sweats and tennis shoes and stumbled outside into the chill to go for a run. 

I was never really a runner, friend, but we were commemorating the Resurrection. Upon reading the Biblical accounts of the story in Matthew 28, Luke 24, and John 20, I noticed quite a bit of running happened early on that historic Sunday morning. Fortunately, I only had to keep up with small children at first, and they patiently slowed their pace for me as they grew. Our role-playing run was not a graceful event, but it was meaningful. 

As we jogged, we slipped back in time to first century Jerusalem and assumed roles of Jesus’ early followers. We pretended to be on our way to the tomb where he had been laid, breathlessly conferring about how they had crucified Jesus and he was dead and what would we do now? When we arrived at our destination—the park or the river, depending on where we were living—we would continue acting out the scene, as described in the Gospels:

"Wait! The stone has been moved!"

"Where is he?"

"His body was here, but now it’s gone!"

"But the Romans posted guards! How could anyone get past them?"

“Now what are we gonna do?”

"He said he would rise again! Do you think it really happened?"

"Whoa! Who’s the glowing dude in white?"

"No way! He has really risen!"

“Jesus is alive!”

"Hurry! Let's go tell the others!"

Then we would run back to the house as fast as we could—which for me wasn’t very fast. Bursting through the front door, we would wake up Daddy, the dog, the neighbors, whoever was within earshot with our shouting: 

"He is risen!"

“He’s alive!”

“He came back from the dead, just like he said he would!”  

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The Brain Surgery Easter

With our kids grown and gone and Andy and I living in Oregon, I spent a recent Easter in Montana, alone. Several of us were taking turns caring for Andy’s father, still in frail health after a fall led to a massive brain bleed and emergency surgery. It was my week to stay with him.

I sat on the adjustable bed in my father-in-law’s simple room at the Missoula rehab center; he sulked in his recliner and sighed. What limited conversations we had were generously peppered with his growls and grunts and his favorite word, “Bah!” as he waved his hand to dismiss the confusing jumble of emotions he felt. 

He wondered whether he would ever return to an acceptable quality of life, if he would ever again be able to live in the home he loved. Once strong and independent, he was a frail, vulnerable man beset with fears and weaknesses. More than once, he mused that it hardly seemed worth continuing on. 

I spoke to Dad’s medical team about the idea of busting him out of rehab and driving down into the valley to his beloved little country church for Easter Sunday. I suggested it might serve as a big encouragement to him. The staff approved.

But to my surprise, Dad was not excited about the idea. As can be expected with recent traumatic brain injuries, his speaking ability was not reliable. Sometimes the words came, and sometimes they just didn’t, leaving him frustrated and humiliated. He depended upon a wheelchair for anything more than a few shuffled steps and was embarrassed that he didn’t have the strength to walk.

I insisted that his friends there wouldn't care, that they would be happy to see him whatever his ability level, that he belonged there, at his church with his church family on Easter morning. He was nervous and far from enthusiastic, but reluctantly consented.

On Sunday morning, I loaded Dad and his wheelchair into my car, and we drove to his church, three towns away. The whole 40 minutes on the road passed in near silence, aside from the nervous drumming of his fingers on the leather Bible in his lap.  

As I anticipated, though, he was mobbed upon arrival with love and support, hugs and handshakes, smiles and so-good-to-see-yous. His ability to speak held and he was able to give simple hellos to everyone who greeted him. 

By the time we sat down, Dad was all smiles. Then, when it came time to sing, he was suddenly stronger than only an hour before. He gripped the chair in front of him for support and pulled himself stubbornly to his feet so he could stand with the rest of the congregation. 

"Up from the grave He arose," he boomed, gravelly and off-key, "with a mighty triumph o'er His foes!” He held his head high and jutted out his chin. “He arose! He arose! Hallelujah, Christ arose!”

The next song, though, caught us both by surprise. It was a classic tune, but newly relevant, especially the familiar chorus. "Because He lives, I can face tomorrow,” my voice stuck in my throat as I considered the timely lyrics. “Because He lives, all fear is gone.” I slipped my arm through my father-in-law’s and squeezed him close. He turned toward me, and we saw tears welling up in each other’s eyes. “Because I know He holds the future, this life is worth the living just because He lives." 

After more hugs and well wishes from his church family, we drove back to the rehab facility, quiet again, but peaceful. There was no run to the river that year, and there were no shiny new clothes or family photos or eggs or chocolates. There was not even a special family dinner—Dad ate his reheated meal on a tray in his room, and after I got him settled in for a nap, I drove over to the pancake house for a stack of solitude, drowned in syrup.

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That was a few years back. Dad is gone now—home to be with Jesus and Judy, his beloved wife, as he so desired. Looking back, it was not my favorite Easter, not by a long shot. But something about his gravelly voice belting out hope and courage in the face of despair and fear, something about the way he turned to me and softened while we sang about facing tomorrow and life being worth the living has stuck with me and settled into my soul.

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Easter, 2024

Andy and I are living back in Montana again, at least temporarily. We plan to clean ourselves up and go into Missoula, the nearest big-ish city, for Easter this year. We will go to church.

To be honest, going to church on Sunday is no longer a given. A church building is not a place we frequent much anymore. We can’t think of one we would consider ours. We have “attended” online since the pandemic first required it. Traveling for the past three months in Southeast Asia, we just abandoned it altogether.

I will admit, though: more than just a pandemic and travel plans are at play here. We are struggling with disillusionment. The American body of Christ, the Church with a capital C, the fellowship of believers—the way we always knew it in the past—feels tainted. We hardly recognize it amidst all the political entanglements and vicious culture wars. It’s not what we grew up with. In many ways, it no longer resembles the embodiment of the faith I once knew.

I miss it.

I miss feeling like I belong with a body of believers. I miss the smiles and the hugs and so-good-to-see-yous. I miss the boisterous corporate singing, the swelling of worship washing over me like a mysterious heavy mist.

I miss it so much, like a part of me—stretching back to my earliest childhood—has been amputated.

So, we’ve picked a church to visit for Easter. It’s not one we’ve ever attended before. We will be first-time visitors, out of place in the type of setting where we used to belong—where we used to even be leaders. We will likely be perceived by some as nominal Christians—COHOs, “Churchgoers on Holidays Only.” Maybe we are.

It doesn’t help that holidays are hard for us anyway. Our family has been divided in so many ways in the past several years. It’s a splintered mess. Unfortunately, we can no longer have family gatherings of more than one jagged segment at a time. And even then, the edges are sharp and liable to cut you if you are not constantly vigilant about what you say and do. With only sporadic (and glorious) exceptions, it is rare that we can relax and enjoy extended family time. Not anymore. It breaks our hearts, to be honest.

So, we are not going to a family gathering for Easter. But we are going to church. We will attempt to be with people who share the same faith, or at least that is the plan. Hopefully it feels a bit like family. Maybe we will almost feel like we belong there. After church, perhaps we will swing over to Paul’s Pancake Parlor—table for two this time, instead of just one.

“Because He lives,” my father-in-law belted.

Death didn’t conquer Jesus. Historical records from the era acknowledge that He actually seemed to return from three days in the grave after a Roman flogging and crucifixion, despite the occupying government’s best attempts to cover up the evidence. Many, many of His followers went to early graves by horrific means because they had seen Jesus with their own eyes, shared meals with Him, had conversations with Him. They refused to deny their reality, even under threat of torture and execution.

It seems crazy, but I believe it, too.

And because of that, I can face tomorrow. Even if my family is shattered. Even if my faith is fractured. Even if so many fellow-Christians are behaving badly.

All fear is not gone, but I am continuing to learn about courage. My friend Sarah says being brave is just doing stuff that scares you (like going to a new church).

In my regular Tuesday post this week, I’ll let you know how it went.

Happy Easter, friend.

He is risen.