Here, Spot

I can tell you what I wore on Easter Sunday in 1972. It’s not that my memory is so good; it’s that the photo I have is so bad. Although I’ve blocked it out in my mind, apparently white suits were in vogue that year. I’ve got a white coat, white pants…uh…white shoes and a white belt. And what would go well with that? A hot pink shirt and a pink and white tie. If my ears had been a bit larger, I could have gotten a job at the mall as the Easter Bunny, no costume necessary.
I’m smiling in the photo. I guess I thought I looked pretty snappy. But here’s the thing: a white suit on me is just asking for trouble. I have a real problem staying spotless. That’s probably why no one has ever mistaken me for Barry Gibb. Or the Saturday-Night-Fever-era John Travolta. Or Gandhi. Ten minutes after donning a sparkling white outfit, I will lean against a muddy car or spill soda or sit in gum. And it only takes one spot to make me look foolish in white. Good thing I wasn’t a bride.
On Easter, we always wore our best clothes to church. Ladies would wear hats. Little girls would have flowery dresses and white gloves. And I wore a white suit on the only day when I could perhaps make it work.
Because on Easter, everything is beautiful. After all, what could be dirtier than a grave? What could be grimier than a stone tomb? Yet out of a grave burst a clean white Light, bright enough to make all the spots and stains disappear. Jesus…now HE could handle a white robe. Nobody’s ever mistaken me for Him, either…but I’m workin’ on it. Not by wearing a white suit anymore. But just by standing in the light.
He is risen. And I am spotless.