Year of Sundays

When I first heard about Easter Sunrise Service at the Cemetery, I was expecting something spectacular. I mean, why else would you haul ass out of bed at 5:30AM on a perfectly decent Sunday morning?

I expected to see the sun rise over the magnificent city of Portland, Oregon.

Instead it rained cats and dogs.

I expected a somber, intimate service.

Instead there was a huge crowd and a table of free Hostess Donettes.

I expected an A Capella men’s chorus or a campfire-like sing-along.

Instead there were the Crystal Gayle Vibrato Sisters who wouldn’t recognize a key if it jumped up and bit them in the auto-tuner.

I expected a sermon so ripe with mystery and awe that I would seriously begin to question my lack of faith.

Instead I got “He is risen indeed,” and confirmation that faith and I are still aren’t speaking to one another.

I expected an insightful, intellectual bible reading.

Instead I got the Road to Emmaus, one of the hardest passages for a non-believer to hear without rolling her eyes.

I expected reverence for the dead.

Instead the only dead person mentioned was Jesus.

I expected to be reminded of my own mortality.

I simply… wasn’t.

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