We stood in church and sang the hymns, the boys with their shirts tucked in for once, me in a tie for once. Caleb had written on his notepad: “He is risen. He is risen indeed. Eastre Day. Amen.”
We sang the hymns and the sound of it would make even the heaviest heart lighter, the kind of lightness that makes you want to sing at the top of your lungs, even if all the hymns were written by people with high voices, the kinds of voices that seem to reach heaven so easily. So I sang that way, loud and not always in tune, and tried to push my words up past the clouds, so that God might hear a whisper, or the echo of a whisper. I sang that way, and I wondered, “Is there grace in your cup for me?”
And the answer came back in the voices of my brothers and sisters, for when we sing to God we are also singing to one another, and to ourselves. The stone has been rolled away, the cup that held bitterness has been refilled with life, and the world has been forever changed. He is risen, indeed.