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| << April16, 2006 - April 17, 2006 - Special Treat - Maria Doherty |
April17, 2006 - April 17, 2006 - Call For Submissions and general membership poll >> |
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Storytime Tapestry Newsletter The newsletter devoted to
spreading love and cultural awareness around the world. Today’s announcements Hartson Dowd is now our official chief
historian and researcher for Storytime Tapestry. Betcha if there is something you need to know
and can’t find it Hartson will! Now onto the good stuff! Today’s Queue Stories ~**~**~ The History of EASTER Hartson Dowd Easter means many things to many people. To the dress designer, it’s the time to introduce new spring
fashions. To the florist, it means increased sales in lilies. The lily—a tall, fragrant plant with long,
pointed leaves is the symbol of Easter because of its shape resembling a
trumpet that heralds the resurrection of Jesus. To the college student, it is an annual break from the
textbooks for fun and sun at To the Christian, it marks the center of all theology,
that the resurrection of Jesus from the dead is living proof that Christ was
the Son of God. For those of us of the Christian faith, the Easter
celebration is the basis of our religion—belief in the life to come after
death. Christians, as well as many
non-Christians, celebrate the festival of Easter each year not only by filling
churches to overflowing, but also by observing customs commonly associated with
this holy season. The word “Easter” comes not from a Christian source, but
from an ancient ritual. An illustrious
monk and writer of the medieval church, the Venerable Bede (673-735), wrote
that the term is a corruption of Eostre—the Teutonic goddess of spring. The label was chosen because of the time of
year when the feast of the resurrection is always held. Easter Day falls somewhere between March 22 and April 25,
but the celebration of Easter actually begins on Palm Sunday, the week before
Easter. Palm Sunday commemorates
Christ’s triumphal entry into Ride on! Ride on in majesty! Hark!
All the tribes’ hosanna cry O, Saviour meek, pursue Thy road With palms and scattered garments strowed.
……….the
Book of Common Prayer Long ago, the Palm Sunday ceremony was a sort of religious
pageant. In the Roman Catholic Church,
the entry of Christ into the As a child I remember spending many hours shaping palm
fronds into the shape of the cross. Each
of our parishioners was given one of the symbolic crosses at the end of the
Palm Sunday service. Many folks used
them as bookmarks in their Bibles or hymnals. The Thursday of the Holy Week, Maundy Thursday, marks the
day on which Jesus ate the last supper with His disciples. Often the churches are specially cleaned and
the altars are washed. At the supper,
Jesus washed the feet of his disciples and it later became the custom of the
kings and queens of Good Friday, the day of Jesus’ death by crucifixion,
always has special meaning in the Christians life. Holy Saturday of “Easter Eve” marks the end
of mourning for Jesus. At many churches
there is a Jesus
Christ is risen today. Hallelujah,
He is risen indeed Hallelujah!! These words are the ancient greeting used by Christians to
greet one another on Easter Day. Many
churches have brought this greeting back into practice. It is usually followed by this glorious hymn:
Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia! There are many and varied traditions associated with this
day. One of the most well-known symbols
of Easter is the egg. Early Christians
saw the egg as symbolic of the Resurrection because they hold the germ of new
life. Now they are used in modern Easter
festivals and are dyed bright colors to suggest joy and many folk give eggs as
an Easter gift. Often the eggs were
brought to the church to be blessed before being given away, and in many areas
this is still the case. Some of the
loveliest of the colored eggs are ‘Pysanky’
the elaborately designed and decorated Ukrainian Easter eggs. Like the egg, the rabbit has been a symbol of fertility
and in a blend of Christian and other traditions, the custom of a rabbit (or
Easter bunny) leaving colored eggs in the baskets of children was brought to In many Christian churches on Easter morning, a common
practice is to hang a banner featuring the image of a butterfly—a symbol of
Jesus’ resurrection. The miracle of
change is akin to the transformation of the broken body of Jesus sealed in a
grave on Good Friday to the glorified body of the risen Lord on the first
Easter morning. Good Friday is also a day to enjoy hot cross buns. During the spring equinox, ancient tribes
sought the favor of the gods for a bountiful yield from their newly planted crops
by sacrificing an ox (called a boun
{thus our word “bun”} by the Saxons).
After the ritual, the participants celebrated by eating cakes marked on
top with a symbol of the ox horns. The
symbol divided the cakes into four equal parts, thereby making it easy to be
divided equally for distribution.
Leaders of the early church adapted this custom into their celebration
of Easter, with the symbol of the ox horns being now interpreted as a sign of
the cross on which Jesus died. Later
some believers thought the buns carried magical powers and brought at least one
of them into their homes to ward off evil spirits. Fishermen sometimes carrying one on their
boats long after the Easter celebration as a precaution against shipwreck. Here is an old family recipe for Hot Cross Buns. 1 cup milk, scalded ? cup sugar 3 tablespoons melted butter 3 teaspoons salt 1 yeast cake ? cup warm water 1 egg, well beaten 3 cups flour ? teaspoon cinnamon ? cup currants 1 teaspoon grated lemon peel 1 pinch ground cloves 1 egg, well beaten confectioner’s sugar and milk
Hot cross buns,
hot cross buns, One a penny, two
a penny, Hot cross buns. submitted by Hartson Dowd thedowds@telus.net ~**~**~ Chapter Ten Your First Easter Debra Shiveley I had planned on Easter baskets and
bunnies; God had another plan. (Excerpt from The Adoption of Christopher) Easter Sunday dawned pink and blue and yellow. Glorious sunshine streamed through the window
to my right. I stretched, trying to
relieve cramped muscles which had been restricted throughout the long,
seemingly endless night. I gazed through foggy, smudged plastic at the bright
sunlight just six feet away. I parted
the curtain and gazed out of the window.
It was going to be a beautiful Easter Sunday; the kind you pray for:
warm and bright with iris-and-daffodil-scented air. I imagined my friends and neighbors preparing for the
day. Easter hats, new dresses and new
suits would be brought out for the special Easter services. Multicolored eggs hidden throughout sun-lit
lawns awaited the eager searching of little girls in starched dresses and
little boys in blue suits as they scrambled upon newly sprung lawns in the
quest of brightly colored treasures. It
was the kind of day I had planned for you on this, your first Easter. I turned and looked down upon your sleeping face. Such a beautiful, sweet face with its chubby
baby cheeks, downy skin and clear cut brows.
I pressed my lips to your forehead and felt a thrill run through my
heart. No fever! My mind traveled back to the Friday morning before. Good Friday began just before dawn for
us. I awoke to hear a strange noise
coming from your room: a kind of barking noise mixed with attempts at
crying. I rushed in to find you,
struggling for breath, your lips outlined in blue. “Mark!” I cried, rousing your father from a
deep sleep. He stumbled in, confused,
but not too muddled to take immediate action.
Throwing on a pair of sweats, he wrapped you in a quilt and rushed you
to the deck outside where a cold pre-dawn breeze might give you some
relief. The frigid air seemed to help your breathing. Your daddy kept you there until I could
scramble into some clothes. We then rushed
you to the emergency room, still wrapped in the quilt, the windows of the van
down so that the cold air would continue to give you relief. They told us that it was the croup and it was suggested
that you may not survive. I remember
grabbing the intern’s tie and pulling his face down to mine “What do you mean
IF he makes it?” I cried. Surely this
was some kind of wicked nightmare and I would awake soon. You were not going to be taken from us. Not you! Not MY son! So began the ordeal.
You were taken to the contagious ward and placed within a tent-enclosed
crib in which medicated mist was pumped.
I crawled in with you and held you.
I could feel your little body, burning with fever, tremble in between
spasms of breathing. I ached watching
you! I was reminded of my last moments
with my mother, the grandmother you had never known. I had watched her as she lay dying, fighting
for breath, just like you were doing now, watched as her chest heaved with the
effort to breath. The memory terrified
me! Certainly a rib cage would break
under such effort! Surely a small child could not survive such suffering! I stroked your forehead and murmured words
of comfort throughout your struggle as I continued to hold you within the
circle of my arms. You didn’t cry. I don’t think you had the strength; I cried
for you. Saturday dawned sunny and warm. I remember thinking that if the day before
had been this balmy, we may not have made it to Children’s emergency room in
time as the frosty temperatures of the morning before had eased the swelling in
your throat and allowed you just enough of an airway to breathe. You slept though most of Saturday; the fight to live had
been won and you had lain, as you had since we arrived, within my arms,
quiescent, gathering strength for the day when you would be released from the
hospital. The room began to brighten with the light from the
window. I stroked your cheek and brushed
your hair from your brow. My beautiful
son! How could I have survived without
you, my baby? Easter Sunday: your first Easter. I thanked God for returning you to me. Today there would be no Easter egg hunts, no
brimming Easter baskets. Instead, today
held life renewed and returned and it held rejoicing! Easter Sunday: a day of reflection and joy representing
the end of suffering and the promise of salvation. I lay down beside you, still holding you in
my arms as my thoughts turned toward another mother: one who had watched her
son suffer; had stood beneath His cross and bled within her heart as each drop
of His blood was shed. How did she
endure it? How had she borne it? I saw her, clearly in my mind’s eye, watching her Son’s
chest heave with the effort to breath, knowing that the very position the
soldiers had placed Him in would cause asphyxiation. She had stood vigil throughout her Child’s
struggle for breath; watched as His lips slowly turned blue as He fought for
oxygen. How she must have longed to hold
Him; to murmur a mother’s words of comfort.
“My baby! My sweet boy!” I felt her pain as her son was lowered from that cross
and, finally, placed within her arms.
Now she could stroke His bloodied head.
Now she could kiss His cooling brow and murmur those words she had
longed to murmur while He hung above her.
I saw her rocking Him, cooing to Him, her voice choking as she perhaps
attempted a broken lullaby. I saw her
whispering words of love, her heart aching with the torment she had witnessed
and with the death of her beautiful boy. I envisioned her on the second day. Her child lay within His tomb, His personal
ordeal now over. She must have felt
comfort in this: her son was no longer suffering; He was at peace. I then imagined her on that first Easter Sunday. I heard the others crying “Here is the Lord!
Here is the Savior! Here is the Messiah!”
but I heard her voice cry out instead: “Here is my baby! Here is my
child! Here is my heart!” What gratitude she must have felt! At that moment in time, I could not imagine
that she was thinking of the salvation of mankind. I could only visualize a mother who had, just
the night before, cried in anguish to the heavens above “I want my son back!”
crying now in gratitude and relief at her child’s return. I turned on to my side and gave you a gentle hug. My heart was filled with gratitude that I had
not lost you; that you were again healthy and alive; that you were here, within
my arms, my sweet son. Kissing your soft cheek I sent up a prayer of
thanksgiving: “Thank you for giving me
my son back,” I prayed, “and tell your mother for me, please - I’m glad she has
her son back too.” I closed my eyes
and, at last, I slept. Debra - Mitakuye
oyasin - We are all related. Easter
Memories Dianna Doles
Petry As a child,
I really didn’t understand the religious concept of Easter and why it was
celebrated. Like most children, my thoughts of Easter revolved around chocolate
bunnies, jelly beans, and the new clothes I was sure to get to wear to church
that day. My parents
were not church goers but my grandmother or my aunt always took me to the
sunrise service on Easter morning. The air here in the mountains of Feet
washing, if you have never seen this or participated in it, is a very humbling
experience. The Deacon, or Minister, placed pans of water in front of pews that
had been arranged for this service. The men washed men’s feet and the women
washed women’s feet. Each foot was placed, one at a time, into a basin of water
and was washed by another person who had cupped their hand and poured the water
from inside it over the person’s foot. It was then dried, gently with soft
patting, with a towel that was wrapped around the waist of the person
performing the washing. I don’t ever remember seeing my grandmother bowing to
anyone else that way and it left a lasting impression on me. We were
allowed to wear our Easter clothes all day long instead of changing out of them
immediately after Sunday school which was the normal routine. I loved the
feeling that a brand-new dress gave me. I spent hours twirling around
pretending to be a princess attending a grand ball. I didn’t care what color
the dress was, although normally it was a pastel shade, but it had to be full
enough for me to twirl. Easter was the one time of the year that I was expected
to wear a hat with my dress and although I hated it then, I love to wear a hat
to complete an outfit now. My brother
hated dress clothes all together and keeping a neck tie on him properly was a
real challenge. Many of the Easter photos from our youth show him with a neck
tie that is wrapped directly around his neck instead of lying under the collar
of his shirt the proper way. I can still remember my father trying to get us to
stand still so he could take our pictures. He had one
of the old Polaroid cameras that only took black & white photos that
developed within a few minutes of taking them. The problem was that the camera
was very slow and then the photo had to be "waxed" with a special
stick that came with each packet of film. By the time the first photo was being
"waxed," my mother was chasing my brother around the front lawn
trying to get him back into place. I stood
there squinting and squirming until my brother was captured and returned to
stand beside me. By that time, my father would have put the camera on the
ground and joined my mother in her attempt to catch my brother before he was
totally stripped of clothing. He was one fast runner. By the time they caught
him, one of them would hold him while the other one retrieved his shoes, his
jacket and his neck tie. Redressing him was no easy chore with him crying and
struggling so the neck tie ended up directly around his neck. I know that my
mother had to fight the urge to really tighten it at times. During my
brothers escape from the family photograph taking session, he often found more
than one of the colorful eggs my father had already hidden around the yard long
before we were out of bed. It didn’t take me long to figure out that my mother
colored the eggs no matter what they tried to tell us about the Easter rabbit
bringing them. One of the
clues was the large bottle of vinegar that my mother carried home from the
market along with the little tablets of color. Another clue was the
"dipper" my father would make from a coat hanger and leave lying on
the kitchen cabinet right beside of the dish strainer. The final clue was the
color of my mother’s arms each Easter morning. From her wrists to her elbow,
she always looked very colorful, as though a crayon welding fiend had entered
our home and held her at his mercy until he was done with her. I am assuming
that she wore plastic gloves on her hands but how the color got that far up her
arm, I will never know. Later,
during my teenage years, I had a beau who gifted me with a live chick dyed a
very bright pink. I refused to bond with the chick since it was from a young
man who definitely had cooties. My mother took it upon herself to teach the
chick tricks, including coming to her when she called it by name and jumping
onto her shoulder to give her a little "kiss" on the lips. This was
very cute when the chick was small but as it grew, it became a trick my mother
wished she had never taught the huge, demanding rooster it became. Easter is a
time of tradition. My own children always loved to the smell of the tavern ham
baking in the oven as it drifted through the house. They looked forward to the
egg hunt even though I replaced the real boiled and colored eggs with plastic
eggs filled with trinkets and candy. They enjoyed the search for them just as
much but I didn’t have to worry about finding hidden eggs with the lawnmower or
weedeater in May or June. That is an odor that no one ever finds pleasant. Of
course, they also waited for the Easter basket filled with candy, jelly beans
and of course, marshmallow chicks. One year, I
thought that I would make the Easter bunny concept come alive for my boys, then
aged four-years and three-years. I waited until they were fast asleep and
placed their baskets at the bottom of their bunk beds. I went outside, picked
up some new grass cuttings, and carried it in the house being careful to drop
it in clumps from the front door all the way up the staircase and into their
bedroom. I was sure it would confirm the bunny myth and I couldn’t wait to hear
them informing their friends that they KNEW the Easter bunny was real! I woke up
early Easter morning to the sound of a broom handle tapping against the wall of
the staircase. My son, the older of the two boys, was trying to sweep the grass
clippings into the dust pan that my nephew was holding while explaining him how
important it was to get that mess cleaned up "Or mom will never let that
rabbit into this house again." I never said a word about overhearing the
conversation and they never mentioned finding the grass. These days,
Easter is a reminder to me that nothing is irreversible. It is a holiday that
ushers in spring, gives me fresh hope and forces me to reflect on my faith and
my beliefs. If Jesus was arisen then despair, doom, and any other worldly
worries and woes can be reversed too. I hope that I have given my children the
traditions of family celebrations for Easter and an understanding of why this
date is so very important to us. It is so much more than popsicle stick crosses
held together with yarn or the scent of lilies permeating our dining room. It
is a fresh beginning for our lives. http://diannapetry.tripod.com I am a lifelong resident of the state of I am a member of the I very much enjoy sharing my short stories and poetry with
others. My work tends to tell you the way it was, or is, or should be. I can
sometimes be brutally honest and embarrassingly funny but it is the only way
that I know how to share this journey through life with my readers. I appreciate any and all feedback on my work. Poetry Section ~**~**~ When I think of Calvary Norma Liles As my pen brings words to life Be they be many or few They are brought together When I think of 'Twas a time of mighty suffering More so than earthly man can bear But our Jesus went down that road Through the pits of hell for us. He guides the hand that leads me Through the spoken word I stand Proclaiming to the world of a Savior When I think of One day at His feet I shall see Him In His glory that I cannot imagine I will praise Him forever and ever For His suffering on NormaLee Liles hoopla214@yahoo.com Norma Liles is a retired data entry Clerk/supv who is 76, a native of And still resides there. She is very Outgoing and loves to make new friends! Her hobbies are: writing poetry and Stories, living for Jesus, reading, Her computer. Her ambition is to add Pleasure to those who read her writings As well as sharing her faith. She enjoys Southern Gospel Music and loves to sing. A senior writer for Storytime Tapestry. ~**~**~ Where were you? Norma Liles Where were you when He climbed that old hill Where were you when the cross He had to bear When the nails pierced His precious skin When the crown of thorns he wore, where were
you. In His heart of hearts, you were on His
heart On His mind, He tasted vinegar for you With each stripe He took He did it for you With His last breath He forgave us, you and
me! On the third day, He made it from the tomb In the heavens, the angels sang a new song The son of God had arose to be alive once
more He is there for us remember He is here! On my knees, I begged forgiveness for my
sins The very sins that He washed with His
blood From the very depth of Hell to His mansion
in the sky Make it right and meet Him there, by and by!
Norma Liles © hoopla214@yahoo.com ~**~**~
EASTER
Readers Feedback Comments From April 9th. This strikes memories of the depression that enveloped my
family until into the fifties 'til the drought was over in 57/58. Bet Pat would
relate to my Gramma's Stuff. I'll send it to her. Mark Crider Senior Writers Chief writer: Sharon Bryant Agee, Vance; Apted, Violet;
Baker, Kathy; Batt, Al; Berry, Nell; Blaine, Pamela; Boda, Ginger; Buhagiar,
Victor; Cassady, B.J.; Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark; Deming, Barb; Doherty,
Maria; Gilbert, Robert, Jr.; Goodier, Steve; Braun-Haley, Ellie; Harris, Kathy
Anne; Hunt, Sharlett; Hymes, Christina; Jacobson, Gary; Kiser, Roger Dean;
Kerens, Claudia; Kevin, Tim; Jenkins, Pamela; Liles, Norma; Lily Jodi Flesberg;
Lock, Joyce; Marlor, Janice Bumbalough; Mazzella, Joe; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge,
Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob;
Sims, Richard; Streidel, Saskia; Swarner, Ken; Vaknin, Sam; Verhoeff, Jan;
Walker, Bill; Walker, Joe; Warner, Gordon, K; Walsh, Sue; Weymouth, Barbara J.;
Whirity, Kathy; Wainland, David; Westerfer,
Clara; White Robert; Storytime Tapestry Staff Carol Roach -
Founder/publisher Thelma Hartselle - Co-Founder,
Moderator Clara Westerfer – moderator Bob Johnston - moderator |
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| << April16, 2006 - April 17, 2006 - Special Treat - Maria Doherty |
April17, 2006 - April 17, 2006 - Call For Submissions and general membership poll >> |
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