Easter Sunrise

I will never forget the childhood drives to Lake Matthews. So many failed attempts to see the sunrise on easter morning. The weather was not always kind. I think it rained all of ten times in my southern California childhood, but that didn't stop the weather from regularly clouding up the Easter sunrise. I can recall two successful ventures over the course of about five memorable years. This is a low estimate. I know that it was twice, but I'm pretty sure there were more than five attempts.

I remember making easter gardens. Baking tins filled with dirt and the roll of TP along with various dying shrubbery and a smooth stone. Representing the tomb in which the body of Jesus laid from good Friday until easter morning or as I called it, "the shortest three days." Sure Friday to Sunday is three days, but Friday night to sunday morning can be as short as 26 hours, and is regularly less than 40. Neither of those numbers are 72, the amount of time that I, even to this day, attribute to the "proper" length of time described by the phrase, "three days." On Easter morning I'd move the stone, to show that "He has risen!"

I think that the first year I made the tomb garden one of my parents moved the stone before waking me to "go chase the sun" -- as we called our overcast, early-morning, easter adventures. I never believed in an easter bunny. I was smart enough to know that miniature Jesus didn't rise out of my easter garden, not even metaphorically. Though looking back, the making of the garden meant a lot to me.

Easter meant one-use clothes when I was a child (judging from the pictures, this consisted primarily of pastel short suits), and it meant wearing clothes that I didn't want to as an adolescent (anything my mom thought looked "nice"). Easter meant family and specifically dad's family. I don't recall ever seeing my mom's family on Easter. This was because dad's family was religious, and mom's wasn't. Dad's family went to chuch, mom's family smoked cigarettes and drank beer. So did dad's family, but I wouldn't know for years about all the undercover vice.

As a young adult living in the aftermath of his parents divorce, I only remember losing all touch with ceremony. I couldn't tell you what I did for Easter from the late nineties until just a few years ago. I know it didn't have anything to do with church or religion though. There were a few years in the drunken slumber where I think I stayed up all night to watch the sunrise. I recall at least two of these attempts failing as bad as my childhood memories. Though I recall a few sunrises, I couldn't tell you if any of them were Easter.

As an adult in the age of SMS, I dread many "holidays" for the stream of text messages wishing me a happy easter. The majority of which read: "Happy Easter!" (and the vibration comes again, "Happy Easter!" and again) with some occasional wit. I try to call my life's important people on holidays. I regularly fail at this. I'm a bad friend, and I'm not good at being family. I'm not good at being in touch, but I'd like to think that it doesn't mean I don't love.

It's been a long time since I've spent Easter with family and I wonder if that is why I feel like I'm coming off so jaded about the whole affair. No, I don't want to cry. I'm fine, and I actually enjoy having friends. I cherish (even if only in my heart and in my memories) the close friends I've made and lost. These people are in my thoughts today as I harbor dreams of resurrecting some lost connections. Though, I don't know where to start.