I vividly remember one Easter morning many years ago.  I was a teenager and had been out on a Saturday night, being stupid with my friends.  Oh, nothing illegal, or immoral, or particularly irresponsible and destructive to society at large.  Just your basic, aimless, waste-of-time, 16 year-old stupid.  That night I drove.  My car was an unimpressive, blue, 4-door Chevy II that probably wouldn’t have beaten a skateboard in a downhill race.  But it got us from here to there in the Southeast LA semi-ghetto where I grew up. That night it had taken us from here to there on our last free night of Easter break and we had enjoyed the ride. But eventually, somewhere around 3 am, we decided to call it a night.  After dropping all my buddies off, I hung out with my best friend, Tino for a while, and then walked out to my car a few houses away on the residential street.

Then I noticed her — a woman sitting alone on her front steps, illuminated by the blue light of a street lamp.  Well, she wasn’t really alone.  She was sitting with a dog.  And it wasn’t just any dog.  It was a huge german shepherd leaning devotedly against her.  But for the moment I wasn’t much aware of the dog.  I was too enraptured with how good my life was to notice those kinds of details.  After all, I was young, the night was fresh and mild, and Spring was in the California air. In general, I was feeling pretty pleased with existence.  So, as I opened the car door I cheerfully said, “Happy Easter.”

Her answer took me off guard.  “Ha,” she said.  “To you maybe.”

Now, I was just empty headed enough as a teenager to think that this was an invitation to discuss the matter.  So, stepping from the car, I shut the door and leaned over the hood. “Why would you say a thing like that,,” I said, “on this of all mornings?”

“Oh, yea,” she slurred bitterly, “Easter!”  She took a long breath and a deep, deliberate pause. “Well, Easter means nothin’ to me.  Just another day that was worse than the day before.”  Now it was obvious to me that the woman was drunk.  But in my teenage brilliance, I thought to myself, “What a marvelous teaching opportunity!”  So I boldly rounded the car and marched up her walkway to share with her the joyous reality of what little I knew of Jesus Christ and God’s Great Plan of Happiness for his children — drunk or sober.

That’s when I noticed the dog.  Because it was precisely at that moment that the woman ordered the dog to attack me.  Instantly Maslow’s heirarchy of needs kicked into operation, In my case my thoughts transformed from those of a 16 year-old who wanted to share the Gospel, to those of a 16 year-old who wanted desperately to be a 17 year-old.  I reached the driver’s door of the car one step ahead of the bounding German shepherd.  As my hand touched the door handle, I realized in a burst of inspiration, that if I took the time to open the car door, I wouldn’t be getting into the car alone.  So, I chose the next best alternative.  I sprang with all my strength on the handle and hurled byself on top of the car.  

I lay there panting for a good minute before I struggled up to peer over the edge of the roof at the growling dog, and then at the stone-faced woman on the steps 20 feet away.  I spent the next hour an top of my Chevy II on that deserted street 3 in the morning.  Just me, and the lady, and the dog.  Every time I made any effort to get down from the roof of the car, or even raised my voice, the dog made an excited attempt to devour me.  Neither was there any reasoning with the woman, who was quite content that I remain there.  And since the dog was in perfect agreement with her, I finally gave up the argument and sat cross-legged on the roof of my little beat-up Chevrolet, while our teaching experience continued.  

I don’t remember much of what was said.  I’m sure it wasn’t very profound. (I was 16 for crying out loud!)  I do remember we talked the world, about life, the Savior and Easter.  After I’d been captive for quite some time she finally unloaded on me.  “Look,” she drawled, “you’re a just a kid.  You haven’t lived as long as I have or as hard as I have. You don’t know anything about me and you don’t know anything about life.  But I do.  And it all means nothing.  And that’s why I’ve done this tonight.”

“So,” I asked her, “is drinking the only way you can think of to give any meaning to life?”  The night grew quiet.  i waited self-righteously, thinking I’d said something very clever.

Then after a long pause she began to laugh.  “Drinking?  You think I’ve been drinking!  I’m not drunk,” grew serious.  “I’m dying.  A little while ago I swallowed a whole bottle of sleeping pills.  And in a little while longer it will all be over.   And you get to sit up there on top of your car and watch.”

Suddenly all  my words were vain, and empty, and meaningless as I was struck with the horror of what I’d been watching.  And it was all the more horrifying and ironic that on this morning celebrating the event which gave life to all humanity, this woman was taking hers away.

With far more at stake that a few hours of lost sleep, I watched the dog more carefully as the woman became more disoriented.  Within a few minutes I siezed my opportunity, leaped to the ground, wrenched open the car door and jumped inside, just ahead of the snarling dog. I sped away and was fortunate enought to find a policeman.  (There was a donut shop only a few blocks away.)  I breathlessly told the officer about the woman — and the dog.  He thanked me, called for backup, and with his lights flashing, raced around the corner.

I sighed and drove wearily home where I fell into bed, only to awake a few hours later, thinking differently about Easter and about life than I ever had before.  I never did find out about the woman, whether she lived or died.  But what stuck in my mind was the burning question, “What does Easter mean to us?”

To some it is merely a vacation day. To others it is a work day. To children it is an innocent fantasy.  And to the cynics it is a stupid tradition, an “opiate for the masses”, mired in a bog of religious superstition not far removed from their own relative morality and political correctness.  Through it all, most of the world has lost sight of the simple reality that changed the world one spring morning  some 2000 years ago — that Jesus Christ lives.  And because He lives, we shall live also.  And we will live forever.

May we all enjoy a Happy Easter.  And may we ponder for a moment what that reality truly means for all of us.

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