Growing up with a southern bell for a mother, Easter Sunday was a special day, not only for the spiritual significance but also for all the little girls and mothers who attended church for the Easter Sunday service. About a month before Easter, mother and I would go shopping for our Easter dresses, bonnets, white gloves, and black patent shoes.
My cute little dress was made with many layers of material that would swing with movement. One that I remember in particular was pale yellow, lined with crinoline with a flower embroidered ribbon sash that tied in the back. Putting on my white gloves was a chore, and after much struggling, mother would place my fingers inside the glove, one by one. I can remember my Mother running to me quickly from across the room, as I attempted to take a bite out of my chocolate Easter bunny with those pristine white gloves on.
Mother would buy herself a beautiful cotton dress, white gloves, with an Easter hat that had a quaint veil that draped just below her eyes. Her long dark hair curled up on her shoulders, looking a lot like Jacqueline Kennedy. White pearls adorned her neck with matching pearl earrings and shoes that would complement her purse. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the entire world.
We would walk into church, and take notice of all the other fancy dresses and Easter hats, and even as a young girl, I would admire the other girls dresses. Being a southern bell, my mom always carried a smile that would light up a room. With a white gloved hand gently placed on my back, mother would lead me to the pew that we would enjoy the service. Sitting in the pew was not my favorite thing to do, attempting to be as proper as my mother, did not last long as my legs would start moving anxiously. Deciding to lift my dress to admire my new bloomers underneath, seemed like the thing to do. Mother looking out of the corner of her eye, would gently pull down my dress, keeping her hand resting on my lap, as a warning to be still.
The piano would begin to play, and we would stand to sing a hymn. Mother would bend down, sharing her songbook with me. I did not read just yet, but I would pretend to know the words. Mother would smile and nod her head at me, as if to say, I was doing a fine job!
One of the most memorable Easter hymns was “Christ is risen! Hallelujah!” Mother’s voice was sweet; I listened as she sang these words.
“Risen our victorious Head!
Sing His praises! Hallelujah!
Christ is risen from the dead!
Gratefully our hearts adore Him,
As His light once more appears,
Bowing down in joy before Him,
Rising up from grief and tears,
Christ is risen! Hallelujah!”
After service, mother would shake the preachers hand as he stood in the back of the church, telling us goodbye and wishing us a Happy Easter!
My father had a best friend who had very deep dimples. They always teased me that I got my dimples from him.
The preacher looked at me and said, “My you have some beautiful dimples!” I smiled, telling him thank you, and that I got them from my father’s best friend.
Mother turned all shades of red, grabbing my hand, quickly exiting the church. It took me many years to figure out what I had said that caused my mom such grief on that Easter Sunday. I knew it had to be more than pulling my Easter dress up to my ears to admire my bloomers.
Easter dresses were only a symbol of something greater on this blessed time of year. It was a special time in which my mother and I spent time together as mother and daughter, honoring the Lord in our Sunday best.