Easter Sunday 1993

 

I wear the billowing white gown, place my grasping fists upside down, holding the copper stem to the cross as if I am in some sort of JROTC flag corps as I lead the advent of burgundy robes and caroling voices down the bleeding crimson carpet into the sanctuary of our God, the entire congregation is flipping their bodies as if like wings into the direction of the sprouting cross I am for the moment ferrying arriving to the alter, pivot gracefully in reverential deference so that now the totemic posture of my body is facing the bald heads of the congregation as the voices of the choir marches past me, settling in the loft to my imminent right.

It is Easter Sunday. I am the crucifier. I grip the cross at the bottom of the tubular stem and cater the church choir down the burgundy-carpeted aisle, between the hard-wooden shackled slant of the pews, into the sanctuary. I ferry the emblem of the silver martyr above my forehead, a shadowed crucifix coats my forehead as I walk in a calculated gait, the inhabitants of the entire sanctuary adjust their shoulders and turn inward, as if I am attired in veiled white. The pipes of the organ trumpet out Lenten oeuvre as I walk, my elbows planted in stringent color-guard formation. Easter is late this year-still three weeks away. I reach the altar first and turn around, still with the cross above me. The April sun bleeds into the stain glass of the pastels of the window.  The choir holds their Lutheran Worships in front of them like atlases, their vision scooping over the line measures and time signatures. They walked paired, singing, in step, past the cross, which I hold up unflinchingly, even though I have to adjust my glasses off the slope of my nose. Even though I am thinking about the place where I am going, the phallic mustached clock of Big Ben ahead of me, in my vision, the nude lanks of Renae Holiday in front of me.  I wear the puffed robe familiar to me from my acolyte era. My hair is firmly sprayed. I hold up the cross as a stream of familiar voices gush past me; the locomotive observing as the freight train passes him; modulating off the track, into the adjacent pews of the choir rack. The voices continue to decrease in femininity and pitch. The thick saw-dust baritone of my Uncle Larry. Otis Whitby offers a tenebrous yawn. My Aunt Linn, the choir director, is the caboose. She nods and I ferry the cross above me, behind the podium where the epistle and gospel reading are delivered, planting the cross, into it’s bronze holder, before taking my place, near the alter, on the front of the church. Pastor’s robes limbs orchestrates the congregational mass into a seated posture, and I recline as well, wonder, in two days, what will happen, thinking about that place I will go.

 

“He is risen.” Pastor Disbro says 

 

He is risen indeed.

 We say it as a colloquial and a greeting at church. The capital male pronoun connoting that of a deity heavenly father is no longer dead. He has risen. He has risen indeed. The paper this morning has the article. Before I leave for church, amidst news of the pending Branch Davidian crisis in Waco Texas, the headline reading ENGLAND AWAITS JS CARRIERS.

 

Still clad in my robes Pastor’s gaunt voice offers out a prayer of protection. Following Lutheran Liturgy, the prayers are offered followed by a unanimous ah men. Rev. shudde stands with equipoise and grace and bellowing reverence to his depth, his chin falling into the Burgundy pond of the carpeting as he begins the prayers for those who are hospitalized. At the last stanza Rev Schudde asks for God to protect me as I travel, as I leave the terra ferma of the south side of Peoria for the first time in my life, entering a continental fauna of deep emerald and of discovery.Pastor Schudde who confirmed me only 11 months earlier. Pastor Schudde who has always been a spiritual mentor with his booming pulpit theatrics and his Friday we Call Good. Pastor Schudde who always refers to the bible as the "pew Bible" and says the phrase "my dear friend" like a bass round. Pastor Schudde who once pulled my aside in the seventh grade and asked if he could meet with me individually to discuss the possibility of myself someday, following in his footsteps, donning a collar, going to seminary. Pastor Schudde who always sees if I can acolyte during the last second during the weekday advent/Lenten services because the church serves as the tics on the grandfather clock that is my family.

 

 

 

 Pastor Schudde who is praying for my protection during the trip. Praying in front of a rather pastel- one-third bonneted attired Easter morning congregation that I might experience the beauty and richness of God's planet.

I look up in the middle of the prayer and see David Best. All I can think about is Renae.

All I can think about is if Renae let him go all the way.

                                                                        *

 

            After the service Ruth Kasper collides into my shoulder, shuffling a waded twenty into my hand. “Here,” she says. “Don’t let your mom see this.” I look back at her and smile.

 

                                                                      *

There have been sightings. There have been disbelief. There have been doubting Thomas'. Kids have drawn diagrams. There is an avatar on the street who is talking smack. There has been a disruption at STAR labs. There is a report on the news that it is all one big publicity stunt. There has been reports on the news of someone dressed in an American flag prancing around the chrome peaks of metropolis saving lives a hero. Something is happening. Something new is ready to come. Lois is dubious. She has just witnessed her fiancé and future father in law die within weeks of each other.

Something is happening. His cult is still foaming in blue collar cloaks, chanting in front of the gilded mausoleum stating that he has returned.


She phones chief Henderson. She says there is something that she needs to do.

She says that there is only one way she can possibly know for sure. 
 

                                                                           ***

After church we go over to my Uncle Larry's house. There will be ham and fried chicken catered from Fairview farms. My grandma will make her cheesy mash potatoes. There will be an Easter egg hunt of the kids and a beer hunt for the adults.

I sit next to Shana who is not my cousin.  Shana who is the step daughter of my aunt's brother. Shana who wears tight stone-washed jeans and a Rochester high school jacket which is the same color of my MHS cross country jacket I wear incessantly with pride. Shana who listens to cool music and who I sometimes steal a bottle of wine with when I see her at Thanksgiving or Birthdays.

Shana who I have had a massive crush on since Alan married his second wife three years ago. When the adults are not looking we each pour ourselves a cup of Franzia boxed wine before adjourning outside.


"Are you excited to be going over to England?"


"Yeah," I tell her, blathering, taking a sip, saying that I'm missing a lot of track and field, stating that I finally got healthy and when I had my first outdoor meet ran my worst time of the season

It is spring. We sip the dregs of our boxed wine in retina-searing light. Behind us a whiperwill chirps out a canticle of bleeps.

I want to kiss Shana. I want to inquire how life has been with her these days. She is exactly one year older than I am in school

We swig our wine quickly, swiping our shoulders to look both ways first. Shana inquires about the girl I was with last autumn.


"Yeah, her name was Renae."

Shana says yeah she remembers that she had a really pretty name.

"Yeah, I guess I kinda called it off between us. I guess I kinda of thought that we needed a break and perhaps maybe we'd be back together y this point but it turned ut she really didn't want that much to do with me after all."

Shana says that it sounds like you truly care about her. I said we were young.

"Who knows. You're going over to England in a couple of days. Maybe you'll meet the love of your life over there. Maybe you'll meet someone who will reciprocate your emotions."

I say yeah, again repeating the word reciprocate wondering how Shana has such an amazing vocabulary.

Reciprocate.