Chapter Twenty: Out of the Grave!

What do you get when you combine childish regression, a ten foot paper rock, food so good it could qualify as heaven on earth and one afternoon spent doing home improvement with the most positive and talkative woman on the planet?

The best Easter ever!

Alright, so Susie and I do not go to the synagogue or practice impossible yoga in order to cope with our children’s absence on this, our first post-divorce holiday alone.

Instead, these two Catholic chicks set off on an adventure that starts with our hitting the biggest Fundamentalist Christian church in town. (Over achiever that I am, I watch the entire Martin Luther Reformation documentary on the History Channel the night before. I wanted to be prepared in case there is some kind of test.)

I pick up Susie bright and early, blaring the theme song to Lilo and Stitch as I skid into her driveway, rationalizing that a little Disney infusion would ensure a zany start to our Easter escapade.

Twenty minutes later we are in an arena masquerading as a church singing away. We are good. We can totally do this! Catholics sing too, how far out can this possibly be? Although, we are little distracted by the titanic theatrical paper tomb on the stage below, above which hangs a colossal sign heralding the good news, “Out of the Grave.”

“What do you think they are going to do with that?” I ask Susie.

“Who knows but I have an idea!” Susie announces, the little wheels behind her eyes just turning away, “Grave? Dead marriage? You with me? We are out of the grave, Audra! It’s our symbol! Let’s take some pictures by that thing when this is done!”

I enthusiastically agree, as of course I am so on board with all things metaphor.

Of course, when I struck this deal I was blissfully unaware that the evangelical/fundamentalist/Pentecostals of the world are far more hard core than Catholics when it comes to suffering. This service took longer than it takes for the Catholics to choose a new pope as halfway through I am literally starving to death. (I don’t even get a tasteless communion wafer or sip of wine to tie my over? Who are the martyrs now?)

But wait, I soon forget my salvation starvation when the lights go down, the music goes up, and the paper boulder’s purpose is becoming increasingly clear when the service turns into the Price is Right, the preacher morphs into Bob Barker and the I Got Saved game show begins!

Testimonials pour forth from the gigantic screen in the front and a girl named Jenny announces, “I got saved at Kid Camp at the age of five!” People clap and holler, the pianist behind the preacher plays at a show tune pace on his electric keyboard, the spot lights zoom in on the artificial tomb and the pastor leads the crowd in dramatically chanting:

“Jenny! You are . . .OUT! OF! THE GRAVE!”

Jenny bursts forth from the boulder, high five’s the pastor and sprints down the aisle leaving sin in the dust! The drums are a drumming, the bass player is a rocking and the congregation goes into an Amen tizzy fit.

All the while, two Catholic woman stand with their mouths agape as this repeats no less than 157 more times. Bobby, Bill, Cathy, Diane . . . they are all:

OUT! OF! THE GRAVE!

Our stunned silence can only last so long. This is, after all, Susie and I.

We quickly move on to stifled heathen hysterics trying SO hard to be respectful of the salvation show. I am clinging to her, she is gasping for air and we are turning every shade of magenta trying not to appear to be the blasphemous babes that we are.

We are failing.

People are staring.

It is obvious to all bible bystanders by now that Susie and I don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hawaii of making it outta the grave and that our poor unsaved souls will be taking up permanent residence IN the grave. (We are clearly not good contestant material for Tomb or No Tomb.)

An hour later, I am weak with hunger (someone throw me a Jesus wafer, will ya?) as the super saving ceremony comes to a close. We slither up front and boldly ask the pastor to take our picture in front of the big fake rock. Reverence goes out the window as I strike a Vanna White pose and snap, photographic evidence to forever commemorate one interesting Easter Sunday is secured.

The rest of the day finds us having a truly religious experience at an Easter buffet (I am still dreaming about that apricot glazed cheese filled crepe thingy), donning our painting clothes and tackling my formerly hideous dining room. I am blessed with Susie’s constant chattering the entire time and we finish up in a couple hours. I think I hear angels sing as I survey the paint job.

My Easter this year looked nothing like those of Easters past. It did not include an egg hunt, chocolate bunnies, my giddy children, a reverent mass, and my homemade glaze atop a ham for the first time a dozen or so years.

But what it did contain was an adventurous day with the two components that makes living this life a trip and anything but dead: endless laughter with a true friend.

And I am feeling pretty darned saved because of it.