It is an Easter Sunday. We've already found the Easter baskets of chocolate bunnies, wrapped chocolate eggs and jelly beans, that my mother always packed carefully with shredded, green, plastic grass, hidden behind the couches and chairs of the living room. The thrill of discovery, coupled with the warm sense of her desire to make us happy and pass along a tradition from our grandmother, livens up our breakfast. The special breakfast of scrambled eggs completes the uplifted mood. After breakfast, we dress in our new Easter outfits; my sisters in their new dresses and hats, me in my new suit, and head for church.

The morning sunshine of spring brightens the stained glass windows of Our Savior Lutheran Church as the congregation sings: "I know that my Redeemer lives; what comfort this sweet sentence gives!" In the window nearest our pew I see Christ robed in white, standing outside the tomb. The altar is draped in white cloth, the sanctuary is filled with Easter lilies, tulips, daffodils and hyacinths. They seem to have sprung up for just this reason; to suggest that no grave can hold this life we have been given. Nothing is greater than our God.

I think of my grandfather in his garden, planting those flowers in his garden. I think of my grandmother and the ham dinner she is making. I can't imagine the world without them.

After the service we walk out into the fresh air and brilliant sunshine. Everyone is admiring each other's new suits and dresses, telling of the Easter baskets we've gotten. The dogwoods lining the block are a blaze of white above our heads. Ahead of us lie the drive to my aunt's house, a baseball game with my cousins in the empty lot next to their house, an Abbott and Costello movie, the smells of coffee and pound cake in the dining room.

At that moment, it seems as if the world will go on forever.