“Wake up kids, it’s time for the sunrise service.”
That was what Dad said at six o’clock Easter Sunday morning every year. It was our family’s version of a sunrise service.
I sleepily climbed the stairs in my pajamas. My sisters came too, all dressed in their long nightgowns with their blankets wrapped around themselves. Mom and Dad were already dressed. Even though it was early Sunday morning they -- particularly Mom -- didn’t want to be seen by anyone unless they were ready for the day. The younger kids didn’t care. We were half asleep anyway.
We wandered through the living room in a semi-conscious state, half wondering about our Easter baskets that the Easter Bunny had hidden somewhere the night before. Then Dad shuffled us out the front door to the station wagon. Mom brought little Christopher in his sleeper.
I began to wake up as Dad drove to the nearest cemetery. Vera was awake also, but Karen and Julie had their heads buried under their blankets. Lisa was out cold, but Christopher was diving over the seats of the station wagon. He was certainly awake.
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