Traditions
Miss Muriel Lowe took a tighter grip of the Bible,
tucked deep under her arm, and mounted the brick steps that led up to the First
Methodist Church of Rebel’s Crossroads. She was late. Something that didn’t
happen often, however today was important. Palm Sunday began the week leading
up to Easter and everyone who was anyone came out on these two particular
Sundays.
Muriel took her cues from her mother and her mother
from her mother. Everything had to look just right. She’d badgered her nephew,
Hubert, to take the afternoon off from the Treasurer’s office and drive her up
to that new mall. There, she’d managed to wrangle two new outfits. Today’s
ensemble consisted of a sheath dress of deep Kelley green, topped off with a
cream colored coat embroidered around the edges with an array of flowers sure
to make Monet jealous.
Why, she’d even spent an extra twenty dollars so
that Eva Green could put a bit of color, a shimmer of Champagne gold, in her
hair, just like in her youth. She reached up and fingered the back of the
highly trained curls wondering if it all been in vain. Few would see the change
beneath the splendid bonnet with the wide brim. She’d seen it first in passing.
Sitting at a jaunty angle in the store window, it called to her. Unable to
resist its siren call, she’d walked in and purchased the straw creation and to
her delight, it matched the color of her dress. The wide satin ribbon and bow
clutched a handful of shamrocks and mirrored the cream of the jacket. Yes, it
was a spectacular outfit, fit for Palm Sunday.
“Morning, Miss Muriel.” Dan Rodger’s smiled as he
handed her the bulletin. “Running a bit late, I see.”
“Yes.” She said as heat crawled into her cheeks.
“Just a bit.” “She took time to look around. “Where is your lovely wife?”
He gazed past her to the corner of the church
building. “She’s lining up the children and waiting for her cue.”
“Then I must hurry to sit down. I don’t want to keep
them waiting.”
The warmth of the sunlight faded as she moved into
the sanctuary. The early spring sunlight broke and splintered by the stain
glass, showered the worshipers with all the colors of the rainbow. To her
delight, every pew was filled. The heels of her sandals tapped against the tile
that lined the sanctuary floor as she made her way to the third bench on the
right where her family had always occupied. The
right side is the one on God’s good graces; her father was fond of saying.
Miss Muriel slid into place.
Setting her pocketbook down, she gazed at the altar.
A profusion of pastel colors represented the offering from Doris’ garden.
Gladiolas, always a favorite, dominated the white wicker basket in shades of
pale pink, blue, and yellow. Yes, Doris had done herself proud. It was a shame
she had to go down to her daughter’s in Virginia Beach and miss the splendor.
Precisely at eleven, the air inside and out filled
with the ringing of church bells across town. Baptist, Presbyterians, Lutherans,
even the Catholic Church, rang in unison. Feet skidded on the floor as the
congregation rose and the doors flew open. At first, the sound was minimal.
Soft voices.
Tiny voices.
Yet, as they
marched in the words to the child’s hymn, Jesus Loves Me, became loud and
clear. Even though they were too small to be seen over the heads of adults, the
palm leaves cut from green construction paper waved with conviction back and
forth. When they reached the first pew, the children stopped, lining the inside
of the center aisle. Behind them a single line took up the center. The adult
choir joined in with the children. Their voices in harmony echoed and filled
the rafters of the structure until the windows vibrated. This was all that is
should be. Muriel’s heart expanded and to her surprise, tears glistened at the
corner of her eyes.
She watched as the minister, Reverend Finlay, walked
passed. Later, after the service, they would all gather at the fellowship hall
for a pot luck dinner. Plates of golden brown fried chicken, a staple of any
southern gathering from weddings to funerals would dominate the table. To be
sure not a chicken would be left alive within a fifty mile radius. Other offerings included bowls of creamy
southern potato salad, and baked beans sprinkled with dark ground sugar would
wait to be plundered. All would be washed away with sweet ice tea.
Then, one by one, mothers and fathers would grasp
their children’s hands as they cross the streets to gather at the central park.
Under the watchful gaze of General Archibald Saunders, Mayor Moore would
preside in the one-hundred thirty-fourth Easter Egg Hunt. It happened this way,
generation after generation. Grandmothers and grandfathers handed down the
tradition to their children, then mothers and fathers passed it on to their
offspring, and to Muriel, it was a glorious rite of spring. In small towns, traditions and families ran
deep.
Yes, Miss Muriel mused. The more things change, the more they stay
the same.
“Blessings to all who enter here today,” Reverend
Finlay’s voice boomed. “May the Lord grant you peace.”
Happy Easter to
everyone from my home and the folks at Rebel’s Crossroads.
Nan O’Berry
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