Somewhere around 4:00 am, I fumbled blindly for shoes and socks in the dark while remembering that Jesus didn’t exactly sleep in on Easter either. He’s the only reason I didn’t roll over and go back to sleep. Yesterday, HHH and I attended a service at sunrise.
Not just any service, mind you, but one took place on the top of a mountain. A real, actual mountain with a road designed by cows, for cows, and left to erode in peace for 30 years. The only way up is in a vehicle with clearance and traction driven by a determined driver. Passengers need to close their eyes and hope for the best.
Arriving at the church by 5 was the first requirement if we intended on joining the caravan. The one drawback was intense dust if traveling at the back of the pack, but no one seemed to mind too much. After waiting 15 minutes for the group to assemble, we headed west.
Taking the road to my favorite lake is always exciting. Off the beaten path, it’s desert wilderness with not a tree in sight and mountains that jut upward towards the stars. Imagine driving on a road without any streetlights well before sunrise. It gives the phrase “dark as night” new meaning.
The darkness hid the major eyesore of acres and acres of solar panels. I’ve no patience for people who think of the desert as useless land, perfect for solar panels or nuclear waste. We need to protect our nation’s open spaces. Quite curious, these panels sit on an Indian reservation.
One needs to know exactly how to find the crosses on the hill. Not marked in any way, the turn is almost invisible in the dark. Having lived in the area for decades, HHH knew right where to turn without street lights or signs. Just a dusty road headed west towards Hooterville. A real place, Hooterville is a grouping of weathered trailers and a few structures where Hootervillians live.
Driving up that rutted road in the dark was like navigating a minefield in slow motion. Every bump questioned the integrity of the axles. Arriving at the broken-down cattle corrals, we were there. Along with members of three local churches, we waited for Easter Sunday sunrise. In minutes, the sky would bloom into soft, impossibly beautiful desert colors.
Three old wooden crosses stood weathered and unwavering on the ridge, silhouetted against the awakening sky, a heavenly vision. Around them, a small flock of the faithful stood bundled in jackets, sipping thermoses of coffee that smelled like hope and survival.
The hymns and readings, heartfelt and hopeful. In moments of silence, the only sound was the breeze passing over the desert while worshippers whispered to each other.
The beauty of this service wasn’t just the sunrise, though that’s the part that brought us all together. It was the trip up a mountain before the world awoke to share grumbling and sleepy smiles. The unspoken camaraderie of people who choose to chase light.
Easter is about the impossible becoming real. Light out of darkness. Life out of death. Hope when it makes absolutely no logical sense. What better way to embody that than a 5 a.m. drive up a mountain road that looks like a moon scape.
Will we do it again next year?
Absolutely.
There’s something sacred about sharing the dawn with people you love. Something holy about standing under those old wooden crosses, watching the light crawl over the ridgeline like a whispered promise.
Was it convenient?
No.
Was it comfortable?
No.
Was it REAL???
Absolutely.
Jesus rose from the dead on Easter morning.
It was a very small sacrifice to rise from a warm bed to worship him.
Even at 5 a.m.
More tomorrow.