The air was cold and damp, with threatening black clouds above seemingly trying to decide between dumping a chilly drizzle or a pouring rain. The dismal setting at the standpipe above a mountain spring's opening, which constantly and silently pumped crystal clear ground water into a wider lake east of the old water tower, did not stop several hundred residents from gathering for the annual Easter sunrise service.
Most were not wearing the special finery that would adorn them when they later went to traditional Easter morning services at the several churches in the small North Georgia town. Fathers and mothers alike held young children close for warmth as an interdenominational choir began to sing. Some of the attendees didn't know whether to be happy or sad at the celebration of Jesus Christ's resurrection more than 2,000 years ago. Each denominational minister who spoke was inspiring, and all glanced eastward at least once, possibly hoping that the power of their words would break the clouds and let some rays of sun shine through on that early Sunday morning.
My eyes couldn't help but follow the clear waters that had traveled a dark course from somewhere in the mountains as it flowed beneath the nearby wooden railroad trestle and into the colorfully putrid lake, made so in those days of the 1960s by regurgitations from the textile plant which was the town's major industry. There, the pure waters relentlessly fought a losing battle with dyes and other chemicals.
The inclement conditions didn't seem to bother the worshippers as they ignored the almost contradictory view and tried to respond to the spirit of love, peace and joy within them, particularly tuning in to the constant flowing spirit of the Almighty that was available to those who could be moved enough to feel the love waves connecting with welcoming hearts.
When the service ended, everyone, including myself, seemed happier than when we arrived, despite the still gloomy skies above.
While eating breakfast alone before Sunday school and the morning church service would start at the Pentecostal church that I had started attending on a regular basis earlier during the winter, I thought about the short trip I had already taken in my love for the Lord.
I first attended the church at the request of a girlfriend who was a member there. After overcoming an initial feeling of discomfort and my not-so-religious reasons for being there, I sat back and soaked in the beautiful and joyful music being sung by the choir, which basically was comprised of anyone in the congregation who wanted to go to the choir loft to sing. I listened to the pastor's fiery sermon, and his message struck some chords.
By the second Sunday of attending the medium-sized, country-style rock church, members of the congregation of about 100 were welcoming and genuinely seemed glad to see me. During the services, I would look around at the faces. The expressions ranged from a quiet celebration in communing with God in prayer, tears rolling down faces, to those whose faces were sad yet committed to praising the Lord and asking Him to answer their prayers. Some simply raised their hands skyward and offered quiet praises.
As the weeks progressed, I looked forward to those Sunday morning services. The people were so down to earth, unpretentious and apparently experienced in feeling and rejoicing in the Holy Spirit. I found myself wanting what they had.
Several, including the minister and his wife, had quoted the scriptures to me about the road to soul salvation. Something inside me kept fighting it. I was still young. I wasn't sure that I was ready to give up anything that might commit me to some restrictive rules of practicing Christianity. Unknown to me, the people of the church were praying for me as they shared their loving welcome.
The hole in my soul was growing intensely. I wanted and needed much more. I needed that positive fellowship within the church building, but foremost, I needed to be able to fellowship with myself.
The frustrating battle grew to the point that I skipped my afternoon college classes and just started driving around, thinking. The pain of emptiness was such that I almost wondered if I needed medical attention. I was a nervous wreck. I drove by the pastor's house, but he and his wife had company -- probably the evangelist who was to start a revival in the church the following night.
My next stop was the white-stoned Civil War tower in the nearby national park. I walked up the dark circular staircase to get to the top, where I looked around, taking in the beauty of the park, even under the dismal clouds which matched my mood as dusk approached. I drove back by the pastor's house. The company was still there. I felt I needed to talk with them, but I didn't want to disturb them.
I finally drove to my home, where I lived with my mother and father, neither of whom were committed to any kind of religion. After doing some studying, which did no good because I couldn't think straight, I picked up the book, "World Aflame," by Billy Graham. All of a sudden, I started to understand. All of a sudden, I believed.
I knelt beside the bed and prayed, crying, repenting and ended up rejoicing because that hole in my soul seemed to be filling up. It was a wonderful and joyous experience. I slept better that night than I had in years, despite lighting, thunder and wind outside, which ordinarily would have kept me awake.
The church members rejoiced and praised God when I shared the news. I felt the spirit of God in a powerful, wonderful way, and they joined me in my celebration. They wanted to believe that I had found salvation on the first night of revival. I didn't have the heart to tell them that it had come quietly, bringing peace and joy to my bedside, alone in my room.
I had sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Jesus had died on a cross, assuming the sins of those who hated and reviled Him then and even of those who were to follow over the centuries. I asked His forgiveness, I had to forgive myself and move forward. I was at the happiest point of my life and I wanted everyone to feel what I felt.
So that first Easter sunrise service at the spring was far from depressing as I heard again about Christ's disappearing from the tomb, speaking with those disciples and others who loved him and then ascending into heaven. The dark, threatening clouds could not convince me that they would permanently cover the light, and sure enough, before the end of the day, the sun was shining its light and warmth upon us.
God and Jesus are very much alive, waiting for hurting souls to find them. They're right there, with us and behind the clouds, waiting patiently for the sun to cast its light upon us with a new brilliance.
If only the entire world could accept and enjoy that Easter light and its dramatic and life-changing capabilities! It's something to hold on to during the storms and on the clearest of days -- now and forever.
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