This past Sunday, we hosted our 7th annual Easter Sunrise Breakfast. Allison and I used toothpicks to hold our eyelids up, having driven back from a wedding in DFW the wee hours before, but wild horses couldn't keep us from hosting this cherished tradition.
I have many fond memories of my dusty, West Texas hometown. Waking up in the pitch black pre-dawn of Resurrection Sunday, to meet our church at a ranch off the Caprock. We'd gather, bundled up and bleary-eyed (little ones still in PJ's), around a campfire as the men prepared breakfast, chuckwagon-style. Morning chill gave way to deep azure and pink, as Bobwhite quail began to greet the dawn. Meadowlark added their warble to the chorus while the scissor-tail performed high-flying aerobatics... and we few joined with all nature in manifold witness, singing hymns at the top of our lungs - celebrating our reason for living.
Fast-forward 30 years - a new generation carries the torch. Higginbotham Park (behind my house) doesn't quite match the rugged beauty of the Caprock's rosy hues, and there is a burn-ban in affect (so no campfire); but it suffices for a bunch of urbanites. This year, my dad shared a vesper and the fellowship of close friends and family was sweet. Kids always like the ukulele and singing hymns a cappella provides a sense of connection with that great cloud of witnesses who have gone before.