An Easter Song

Christopher James was an ordinary boy who lived with his loving family on an ordinary block in an ordinary town that happened to rest at the first contour of what is known to be the Wasatch Front of the Rocky Mountains. To be more precise, his total experiences of eight years are where we begin, as every story must begin somewhere. He had two older, more worldly-wise brothers (both in high school at the time) who were always quick to remind Christopher (always consigned to be the “baby” of the family) that he was their subordinate by age. The family lived on a deliciously tree-sheltered block in an area known as East Bench in Ogden, Utah.

Chris, as he was known to his many close friends, was neither the tallest nor the shortest of the bunch, not that any cared to measure. He was just a normal child with his whole life waiting ahead of him. There was no reason to suspect that his life would be anything other than ordinary. But there was an unknown future awaiting him, one he could never imagine, and a reckoning that was not short of being supernatural.

Chris was no longer tagged as “towhead,” although shades of such still lingered—as they had with his father and his father’s father. He might have become a good athlete if he had been born into a family that had the inclination to pursue sports. Daily play consisted of some semi-structured ball games or tag, but mostly it was an impromptu amount of leaping fences, chasing all manner of critters, climbing trees, swimming, sometimes yelling at the mountaintop, and other nonsensical activities joined in by other ragtag children on his block, the next block, and across town. Play was tantamount to being a child. Even during the most troublesome storm, lights of imagination would keep him smiling.

Seven o’clock on a mid-April morning can still generate shivers to those not properly bundled in Utah or in many parts of the world, and this particular year was on par with the median climate that was so proudly touted by the chamber of commerce. The entire James family was out of the house and positioned among neighbors who were sharing the cold shadows of Mount Ogden on this glorious day. With the exception of a few older children who quietly shivered in their display of hardiness, most of the participants were bundled in layers of cotton and wool garments. Mittens were optional, as there were many pockets to use. This was a special Easter Sunday in that the church was attempting to hold an outside sunrise service for those wishing to brave the morning air.

The service seemed livelier than usual. Chris later commented about the spiritedness, but he thought it might be because people were allowed to bring their dogs, being that it was outdoors. The James dog sat dutifully at Chris’s feet. At times, there were a few canine notes that interspersed the redeeming message—but to no one’s real consternation.

The sun’s morning appearance in Ogden typically is foreshadowed by a muddled lightening of the sky, since it has to work itself up the east side of the mountain before showing its brilliant face. Today was different. There were just enough thin, high clouds that dramatized the sun’s coming. Crimson and pink filled the sky with streaks of glowing embers outlining the dark, chiseled ridge. Ben Lomond Peak, flanking the city to the north, was the first to take the sun’s resplendence. The upper reaches of the mountain were reluctant to let go of winter’s white blanket, and its brilliance was not unnoticed. The sun already highlighted the Great Salt Lake to the west, and as the service continued, one could watch the light creep into the city block by block, as though it were a slow-moving tide. The glorious sight was a distraction to the service but befitting nonetheless. Even the minister mentioned the sky’s pageantry, seeing that many eyes were lifted upward.