By Sean Dietrich
“What is Easter?” the boy asked his grandfather.
The old man and boy sat on the front porch. That’s where people used to sit in the olden days. They used to build porches on the fronts of houses so you could wave at your neighbors. Now they build “decks” on the back so you can wave at your above-ground pool.
“Easter is a day of rebirth,” said Granddaddy.
The two cohorts were still wearing their Sunday best. The boy: His necktie and khakis. The grandfather: His button down, crisply pressed, with only a few tobacco-spit stains on the collar.
“What’s rebirth?” the boy said.
“Well, you remember when you was born, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Well, trust me you were born, or else you wouldn’t be here.” Granddaddy took a sip of his Doctor Pepper. “And today it all happens again.”
“What happens again?”
“You get born.”
“I get born twice?” the boy said.
He nodded. “Look at the trees and the flowers, see how they’re all blooming? You see those azaleas across the street.”
“Which ones are the azaleas?”
“The pink ones that Mrs. Wannamaker will slit your throat you if you touch.”
“I see them.”
“And the trees, look at them. They’re turning green. The birds are singing. That’s what resurrection means.”
“It means birds?”
“No. Resurrection means, when something comes back to life. And it’s a miracle, every time something gets reborn. Because a new beginning is a miracle.”
“Is that why we look for eggs on Easter?”
“No. Hell. I don’t know why we look for eggs.”
He took another sip. “Look,” he went on, “you know all those crosses people wear around their necks?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think we’re wearing the wrong thing around our necks. We shouldn’t be wearing the cross. The cross is death. It’s a tool of execution. It’s like wearing an electric chair around your neck. Or a hangman’s noose.”
“Granny wears a cross around her neck.”
“Your Granny was raised Pentecostal.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means don’t go to her church if you’re afraid of reptiles.”
He unbuttoned his top button. “The point is,” he went on, “maybe we should be wearing the empty tomb around our necks. Because that’s where it all starts.”
“Where what starts?”
“That’s where your life begins. You will come to a point in your life when you have nothing. You will reach a moment in your life when everything falls apart. You will find yourself in a tomb, of sorts. You will be as good as dead.”
“Just like Jesus?”
“Just like Him. And I wish I could save you from that fate, but I can’t. Because on that day, there will be nothing left for you, boy. Your life will be a wreck. You will be at your bitter end.
“And in that moment, you will have only two choices: You can either lie down and die, or you can look up.
“What happens if I look up?”
“Rebirth.”
“Have you ever been reborn?”
“Many times.”
“How did it happen?”
“It first happened to me when I was in Italy, fighting. And there were men with guns all around us. And my young soldiers were all going to die.”
“And what’d you do?”
“We all looked up, and we asked God to help us. My men started praying. Out loud. We started talking to God. And that’s all it takes. You just have to talk.
“Ain’t no magic words, no secret handshake, no special membership rules. Don’t ever let anyone tell you it’s more complicated than that. You just talk to God. And He’ll hear you. And He heard us that day in Italy.”
“And what happened next?”
“I’m sitting right here drinking a Doctor Pepper, ain’t I?”
Granddaddy always had a way of explaining things so I could understand them.
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