Easter Traditions in the South

Yesterday I watched the sun rise with fellow worshipers at the edge of a cemetery. We listened to the birds waken from their night's rest and we sang songs of praise. There's nothing quite like welcoming good news at the break of day.

Thank you Mark Odom for the picture.

I felt a connection to worshipers across the globe who, like me, were looking for the light of the sun to break through the darkness when the preacher could announce, "The Lord is risen," and we could respond, "The Lord is risen indeed!" This year, mainly because of this Pilot Mountain project, I also felt a deep connection to Easter mornings past and the throngs of people who, generation after generation, also stood vigil.

Tradition is a comfort to me. With the chaos of newness and uncertainty, rituals bring me a reassurance that the world goes on.

Did the masses across the globe smell country ham cooking in their church fellowship hall while they stood outside? I did. Did they eat scrambled eggs and grits and red eye gravy and salty ham biscuits when the sunrise service ended? I did. Did they watch excited children in their Easter finery dart through dewy grass searching for Easter eggs? I did.

Tradition.

Easter egg hunts were a tradition at Pilot Mountain School, only these eggs weren't the plastic dollar store dozen stuffed with candy treats. They were real, hard boiled, dyed at home eggs and brought to school in baskets. These eggs the teachers counted before they hid them to make sure they wouldn't smell the forgotten egg two weeks later.

Plastic eggs, real eggs. It's the reassurance to the children that counts. The world goes on.

Catch of the day,

Gretchen