I have to re-share this story. It is one of my all time favorites and is still as clear today as it was so many years ago.
Easter of 1969 was epic in the lives of Greg, Gretchen and Gayle Jones. We made our mother cry.
Rural southeast Iowa was our home. Father pastored two small churches, but life was humble. So that my sister and I could have a new outfits for Easter, my mom took old prom gowns and repurposed the taffeta and lace to make two frilly little dresses. My brother Greg sported a suit of brown trousers, white shirt, bowtie and plaid jacket. My parents didn’t have much but they made the respectful behavior and tidy appearance of their children a priority.
At the crack of dawn Easter morning, mother roused us from our beds. We were to attend a community sunrise service, followed by the regular worship service where my father pastored and then off to my grandparents home in the next town over, to enjoy lunch and an egg hunt with all the cousins. Of course the Kodaks would come out to capture the moment.
Following the early service my sister, brother and I wandered off into the cemetery next to the little white country church, while my parents greeted and visited with neighbors. We were six, five and three years of age. When you are unaware of death and burial, but have an active imagination, fences and tombstones imitate rock climbing walls and obstacles courses. I’m not really sure what unfolded in a few short minutes, but somehow a dapper ensemble was torn and dirtied with grass stains, stitches holding a blue ruffle in place got ripped and a nose bleed dripped onto a yellow collar. That’s when my mother cried.
She did not rant, rave and scream. She sat stoically in the front seat of our 68 Ford and quietly wept, her bouffant trembling a little with each silent sob. Dad put us in the back seat and three big eyed little children wondered how the world had gotten so topsy turvy. We had no idea our mother could cry. Dad was quiet, not really knowing where to start correcting all that had gone wrong.
The Jones children had no comprehension of the sacrifice made by our parents. We got up each day and did what kids do. Understanding that food, water, clothing, all we had that kept us alive and content, was provided at a cost, paid by someone else had not been learned yet. Awareness and gratitude were not natural instincts, but a lesson to be taught. Mother wasn’t angry that we acted as children act, she was hurt because her labor of love was ruined and the image she worked hard to create was marred.
Mom and dad took us home, removed our torn and stained clothing. They cleaned, restitched and ironed out the wrinkles. Soon things were put right again and we set off for service number two a little more aware that our actions had the power to hurt others, even if a gift was given without obligation.
Salvation is offered without cost to any of us. But there was a price and it was paid. Our sin causes pain to the One that loves us most, however, that labor is irrelevant when we are restored to the perfect image of our Creator, just as He designed us to be.
But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him and by His wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53; 5
Have a Blessed Resurrection Sunday,
Gretchen
