Two Easter Sundays

On Easter Sunday, 2010, we walked up the pathway toward an intimidatingly beautiful stone church. Men in navy blazers and tan pants handed us programs, opened the solid wood doors, and escorted us to two of the last empty seats in the cavernous building. As the gentle light of dozens of stained glass windows shown down on us, a six piece brass ensemble began to play, soon joined by a powerful organ and a stunningly talented choir of more than twenty. Then, a congregation filled with women in colorful dresses as varied as flowers in a field, men in new suits, and children in ruffled dresses and crisp jackets rose and sang out with triumphant joy. This was our first visit to Bethesda-by-the-Sea.




Fast forward to a year later. On Easter Sunday, 2011, we walked up that same path to that same church, but instead of feeling intimidated by the grandeur and beauty, all we felt was excitement and anticipation. Instead of being greeted by navy-clad strangers, we waved to those now-familiar men and veered to the left. We walked straight back to the garden where we greeted all of the families and children by name. Our own little boy in his seersucker jacket joined the little girls in ruffled dresses and other little boys in crisp jackets for an Easter egg hunt. Afterwards, we settled into a pew feeling as comfortable and as at home as a hand slipping into a well-worn glove. The six piece brass ensemble began to play, the organ joined in, the voices of the choir rose, and we began to sing surrounded not by a strange congregation, but by our friends. As our joyous song reverberated through the building, I came to the conclusion: No one does Easter like Bethesda-by-the-Sea.