An Easter Song

By L. J. Christensen

We are all familiar with Charles Dickenss beloved A Christmas Carol, perhaps because the story and characters are so true and timely though written some 175 years ago. Also, at least on some level, we can relate to a character who has been hardened by life and the sorry paths that were taken.

An Easter Song is intended to be to Easter what A Christmas Carol is to Christmas. It boldly emulates Dickenss template, but it is a new story set for todays generation. There are no haunting spirits in this story, but an equally traumatic event allows the primary character to visit pertinent scenes from his past and to witness missteps he took in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973636021

L. J. Christensen

L. J. Christensen may have won awards for journalistic excellance, however storytelling is the true calling. It is easy to identify with the characters and they are vey likable, if not loveable. There is always a redeeming, uplifting message to the oftentimes complex stories that are suitable for all ages. There seems to be more personal insight given to the characters than one would typically expect for fictional characters, which binds them to the story at hand. Careful details are meticulously handled as each story develops. Analogous to good storytelling one yearns to move from chapter to chapter as interest intensifies with the unfolding story. The author may not end the stories as anticipated, however the endings are always satisfying.

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Copyright © 2018 L. J. Christensen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-9736-3601-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-3600-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-3602-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018909255

WestBow Press rev. date: 08/06/2018

Contents

Preface

Introduction

First Movement

Second Movement

Third Movement

Fourth Movement

Fifth Movement

This story was not written for any one person, but it is dedicated to anyone and everyone who might have chosen paths offered through life that have taken them from their original selves. There is no stage in life, however, that is too late to redeem oneself and reclaim the youthful spirit that was given to you.

Preface

If this story sounds familiar, it is, for it boldly emulates the work of Mr. Charles Dickens’ classic novel, A Christmas Carol. Mr. Dickens penned A Christmas Carol for the purpose of bringing the spirit of Christmas back to the populace of his day. It was designed to be a mostly lighthearted, somewhat secular read with religious undertones intended for the masses.

An Easter Song is, as you might expect, a similarly human story centered about the message of Easter that also seems to have been mislaid by today’s generation and societal climate. Beyond that, this is a new story that could very well be our own.

Introduction

If it were any other time, the same would ring true. It is not the time, surroundings, events, or even season of life that are what set this story. The essence of what is immortalized within these pages could belong to any one of us. We would wish that the spirit of the events that happen in this story can be avoided, but that is dependent upon what life dishes out to us and what we decide to take from the plate. As my mother once told me, It is the nature of humankind to be influenced, pulled, and shaped by events, circumstances, and acquaintances that life holds before us, but let not one lose their soul over it. At least I think that is how she said it, so many years ago.

First Movement

Fifty Years Prior

C hristopher James was an ordinary boy who lived with his loving family on an ordinary block in an ordinary town that happened to rest at the first contour of what is known to be the Wasatch Front of the Rocky Mountains. To be more precise, his total experiences of eight years are where we begin, as every story must begin somewhere. He had two older, more worldly-wise brothers (both in high school at the time) who were always quick to remind Christopher (always consigned to be the baby of the family) that he was their subordinate by age. The family lived on a deliciously tree-sheltered block in an area known as East Bench in Ogden, Utah.

Chris, as he was known to his many close friends, was neither the tallest nor the shortest of the bunch, not that any cared to measure. He was just a normal child with his whole life waiting ahead of him. There was no reason to suspect that his life would be anything other than ordinary. But there was an unknown future awaiting him, one he could never imagine, and a reckoning that was not short of being supernatural.

Chris was no longer tagged as towhead, although shades of such still lingered—as they had with his father and his father’s father. He might have become a good athlete if he had been born into a family that had the inclination to pursue sports. Daily play consisted of some semi-structured ball games or tag, but mostly it was an impromptu amount of leaping fences, chasing all manner of critters, climbing trees, swimming, sometimes yelling at the mountaintop, and other nonsensical activities joined in by other ragtag children on his block, the next block, and across town. Play was tantamount to being a child. Even during the most troublesome storm, lights of imagination would keep him smiling.

Seven o’clock on a mid-April morning can still generate shivers to those not properly bundled in Utah or in many parts of the world, and this particular year was on par with the median climate that was so proudly touted by the chamber of commerce. The entire James family was out of the house and positioned among neighbors who were sharing the cold shadows of Mount Ogden on this glorious day. With the exception of a few older children who quietly shivered in their display of hardiness, most of the participants were bundled in layers of cotton and wool garments. Mittens were optional, as there were many pockets to use. This was a special Easter Sunday in that the church was attempting to hold an outside sunrise service for those wishing to brave the morning air.

The service seemed livelier than usual. Chris later commented about the spiritedness, but he thought it might be because people were allowed to bring their dogs, being that it was outdoors. The James dog sat dutifully at Chris’s feet. At times, there were a few canine notes that interspersed the redeeming message—but to no one’s real consternation.

The sun’s morning appearance in Ogden typically is foreshadowed by a muddled lightening of the sky, since it has to work itself up the east side of the mountain before showing its brilliant face. Today was different. There were just enough thin, high clouds that dramatized the sun’s coming. Crimson and pink filled the sky with streaks of glowing embers outlining the dark, chiseled ridge. Ben Lomond Peak, flanking the city to the north, was the first to take the sun’s resplendence. The upper reaches of the mountain were reluctant to let go of winter’s white blanket, and its brilliance was not unnoticed. The sun already highlighted the Great Salt Lake to the west, and as the service continued, one could watch the light creep into the city block by block, as though it were a slow-moving tide. The glorious sight was a distraction to the service but befitting nonetheless. Even the minister mentioned the sky’s pageantry, seeing that many eyes were lifted upward.

Wow! Would you look at that? Chris whispered to his parents. And during my song too!

For whatever reason, the hymn Go, My Children, with My Blessing resonated with him. Chris, who had no voice for song, quietly mouthed the words at a pitch that would remain only in his space. This was a rare service in that Chris and his two brothers, Brian and Glenn, did not fidget all that much. Somehow the service seemed shorter than usual.

The greetings, handshakes, hugs, and conversations filled the makeshift amphitheater as soon as the service ended. One would not suspect that most participants had seen each other the day or at least the week before.

Even Chris joined in the chorus of receptions. Hey, Terry, you comin’ over later?

Terry Conklin was Chris’s best friend, self-inflicted blood brother, and cofounder of their unnamed club that contained two members.

Yep, right after breakfast and the hunt for eggs. Terry had a younger sister, Ann, so it only seemed fitting that they would still have the egg hunt at home.

Chris was conflicted. Though the youngest, he was now a year older, so he suspected that the previous year’s hunt was his last. After all, he was a third grader now, a senior (so to speak) of the lower division at Polk Elementary School. This meant that the following year he would be attending the big kids’ side of the campus—the side that actually contained a baseball diamond and a painted blacktop sports area that included games beyond hopscotch. Being on the cusp of graduation to big-kid kingdom tended to engender questions about the bunny and colored eggs.

Once the chattering crowd dwindled, Chris and his parents set out to round up the two older boys, both of whom were off talking with their girlfriends. As usual, Chris was first to make a threesome intrusion with no qualms about any ramifications.

Mom says we gotta go home now.

It was a rare opportunity for Chris to manifest power over his two older brothers, and in their silent glares, Chris stood a little taller. It was Easter, and he knew that Brian and Glenn would be on their very best behavior, as Mom would be too busy preparing for company and fixing dinner to deal with feuding brothers.

Undiscovered during the eye-rubbing, predawn awaking, but quickly spotted upon the return home, the brothers came upon three (yes, three, as traditions are held dear regardless of age) Easter baskets that had been carefully placed behind the sofa. Each was brimmed with decorated candies, yellow marshmallow chicks, a chocolate bunny (innocently unaware that it was soon to lose its ears), colored eggs, and a card that would be summarily read.

The sight of eggs in the basket brought a disconcerting question to Chris’s face that was easily read by his dad, who answered, Well, aren’t you going to look for the rest of the eggs that might have been hidden about the house?

Not long after breakfast, and upon devouring the remaining hot cross buns from the special red plate reserved for such occasions, the boys gave a good faux cleaning to their rooms, changed clothes, and then dashed outdoors. All three boys hung about the front yard until Terry and other neighborhood boys appeared, at which time Brian and Glenn went to predetermined destinations.

The sun had by now fully escaped the mountain barrier and illuminated the entire basin of the Great Salt Lake to the very foot of the Rockies, where the James house was nestled. The morning clouds had dissipated, which allowed the vibrant colors of the earlier sunrise to descend upon the waiting flowers anchored to the earth below. The flowers were quickly opening to display the rainbow of color that was given to them. The early spring gave vigor to many of the flowering plants, especially the tulips that seemed to appreciate the end of winter the most. Although East Bench is a compilation of several homes per block with yards of varying sizes, one would think during this time of year that one was standing in a clear, unobstructed field of tulips rich in purples, reds, pinks, yellows, whites, and variegated showoffs. It could just as well be a gigantic field of colored Easter eggs, if one had a hint of imagination. These were the fruits of the neighborhood’s fall labors.

The James home was elevated just enough to make it an ideal location to roll Easter eggs down the lawn to their ultimate Humpty Dumpty