Submitted by: Brittany Mueller

Deep brown eyes speckled with hope and hunger stared down from the brick wall.  His hands reached forth as if summoning the goodness to emerge from the souls who had gathered below.  A weak smile frozen on his youthful face, he waited halfway across the world for sustenance.  Above his head floated the words, “even a dollar can make a difference”.  The oversized poster was plastered by the mall’s entrance, directly visible from Jeff‘s apartment on the third floor. As a result, each day he awoke to find the child studying him hopefully. If the poster held the power of observation or reasoning, it would have long averted its gaze to find a more willing caregiver. In fact, if it possessed even so much as one brain cell, it would have relocated so as not to waste another nanosecond looking to Jeff for so much as a cent.  As it was, the poster remained staring fixedly into an apartment littered with wine bottles, bags of untouched clothing, and mounds of videogames and movie stubs.   Watching longingly each day as Jeff came home with yet another gallon of milk, the majority of which would be thrown away the following day, and a thirty dollar order of Japanese sushi on which he would nibble before disposing of as well.  Although his gaze was constant, it seemed to go unnoticed by Jeff.  It was only the first week of Jeff’s residency, in fact, that he had glanced at the poster. Even then it was with contempt, “a dollar would make a difference,” he scoffed, “only if your parking meter is about to expire”. After that, his life had continued without as much as a thought about his starving neighbor.  It wasn’t until a humid night in July that the poster’s eyes flashed and smile broadened mischievously.

The scorching sun blazed down upon Jeff who recoiled from the heat. Tossing and turning, he searched for the cool comfort of his fan. Not finding it, he groped for the water bottle he propped next to his bed.  As his hand closed around a rough object, his mind twitched. Realizing he could not identify the object by touch alone, he slowly raised his eye lid. They closed on impulse upon seeing the burning orb above. To block its intensity, he cupped this hand over his eyes to give them a place to open in peace. He sat up and removed his hand.  His pulse quickened his breath followed suit until he released the inevitable scream.  Nothing was familiar as he scanned the barren plateau.  There was no explanation, no note, no stores, no cars, no nothing, except he realized, following the hairs on his neck, a group of children staring at him in wonder. They had heard his scream and come running, but upon seeing Jeff they seemed at a loss for the reason of his cry. Dismissing him after one last glance, the first child turned and was soon followed by the rest of the group. Frantic, Jeff stumbled to his feet and followed, acknowledging them as his only chance.  After what seemed an incredible distance for children to have run in the first place, Jeff caught sight of what appeared to be a stream.  An overpowering thirst struck him immediately and he sprinted to the edge. Cupping his hands in anticipation he plunged them deep into thick, filthy water. He let it slosh through his hands back into the stagnant stream, his hopes falling with it. Looking to his left, he watched in horror as a small girl scooped up the water and drank deeply. The mud still dripping from her dark face she resumed digging near a withered tree with the rest of the children. A skeletal boy let out a victorious cry as he produced a tangled root from the ground.  A look of fear immediately attacked his small face and he sprang to his feet. It was too late, however; the other children were already on top of him prying the root from his small hands. The fight ensued before Jeff’s eyes until three bony men came and separated the children.  All was silent as the children slowly surrendered in their father’s arms. The root was confiscated by the men and a jumble of sounds poured from the tallest man’s mouth. In response, the children and other men followed.  Noticing Jeff, the man came and held out his hand. Hesitantly Jeff took it and for the first time stared at his hands. They were small, dark, and callused. He could see his every bone and was amazed his brittle wrist could support even the weight of his thumb. Sure enough, upon examining his feet he found them to be similar and when he stood, he noticed he only came up to the man’s knee. With an impatient tug, the man pulled Jeff along until they reached a small village dotted with earthen huts.  There were people sprawled in the streets men and women alike breathing shallowly and licking dusty lips. Among them, outsiders ran distributing what little water and food they had. When none was left, they sat and comforted the children with swollen stomachs and pained eyes.  The man released Jeff and gave the root to one of the outsiders who mumbled what seemed to be thanks and began preparing the root. Upon finishing she distributed it among the children until even Jeff found a small morsel pressed lovingly into his hand.  When he opened his mouth to respond, a stream of unfamiliar words came from his lips. She answered in the same language and this time he understood.  Gathering his courage, he asked “why are these people so hungry?” Surprised, the lady responded, “You must know that if we had more food we would give it to you all. We are trying, but this month’s supply has run out. Hopefully, soon more will come so we can eat a full meal a day. Doesn’t that sound good? One whole meal. Even it is just a little, it will help. Just wait, my dear, more will come. We have pictures and messages telling people of our needs, they will listen. You’ll see. ” Heavy tears welled in Jeff’s eyes and he watched as the dry earth absorbed them. He closed his eyes and reflected on the world around him. He could see their faces, exhausted with hunger and yet still marked with hope. Opening his eyes he saw the poster child’s patient face observing his.  With a new found purpose, Jeff read confidently “even a dollar can make a difference.” A soft smile played over the poster’s face and in a twinkling, it was gone.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I was hoping to have a glorious story of the celebration of Jesus’ resurrection amidst the simplicity of life in a small African village. Just as the disciples expected Jesus to reign in glory as King of the Jews instead of hanging on the cross, so did I expect this Easter to be filled with triumphant celebration, instead of casual indifference.

Easter morn greeted us with bright sunshine, singing birds, blooming trees and a buzz around the house that indicates it is going to be more than a typical day. I opened my suitcase to pull out some clothes for the day. There was one piece of clothing I had been saving, something new, so that even if everybody else failed to celebrate Easter, at least I would have something special. It was a red, frilly skirt; the peasant type that has been in-style for the past couple of years. It was out of character for me, but it made me smile. In a small rural town, plagued with premature death and disease, you need some things that will make you smile.

The church met in the classroom of a small Bible school. My friend and I took some seats that were open in the front row. We sat on some dreadfully uncomfortable chairs that were pulled up to ancient looking wooden desks. We arrived just in time to join in singing “Up from the grave He arose.” The people sang without accompaniment, definitely with their own rhythm. Most of the hymns I recognized, though it was hard to tell without the music. The people sang loudly, but not passionately; reverently, but as if their hearts were in far off places.

The rest of the service was disjointed. Seeming not much more than a formality, people continued on with their singing… songs about when our sins were as black as can be, later washed white as snow. I understand now, the resentment lying quietly at the bottom of their voices. They are supposed to be excited about their sins washed as white as snow but have never seen snow. They have only seen the snow white faces of the men by whom they have felt oppressed.

Back at the house, my friend and I sat on the porch eating mini-apple pies we had made for lunch. The rest of our host family did not even eat together. The food sat on the table most of the day, covered with a mesh cloth to keep the flies away until people were ready to eat. The usual household chores seemed to dominate the afternoon’s activities.

So there you have it. No pomp and circumstance, no egg hunts or chocolate bunnies, no “The Lord IS Risen” “He is Risen in Deed!” No all-church breakfasts or fancy brunches with friends. The day had come and gone. Without my frilly red skirt it would have come and gone the same as any other day. Maybe that was how it was for most people on the true Easter day… nothing extraordinary. On a day like any other, only a few rejoiced in the news of the life resurrected while the rest remained disbelieving or completely unaware of the day’s significance.

As I lay in bed, I thought of a line from a hymn, “Where now death is your sting?” At home, we sing it in confidence, knowing that even in death Satan cannot take our lives, for we have the promise of life eternal. I think the people of this poverty stricken village have been stung so many times by death that they almost not dare to hope for the salvation offered though the resurrection of Jesus. Otherwise, how could they not dance with joy and celebrate with gladness? For the real Easter is more magical than Christmas, more relevant than church and far more powerful than death. Without it, there is little meaning in all else that we do.

Taken from the travel journal of Sarah Satterberg