Easter Sunday

The far left candle is mine.
I woke up in Bologna, Italy on Easter Sunday at 6:40am.

I rushed to put on the long sleeved, bright blue dress that I bought the day before, despite the cold. I scurried around our hotel apartment searching for my shampoo bottle and misc bobby pins, to throw them in my luggage. My luggage was lumpy as I zipped it closed. The three girls and I gathered at the door to make sure we had everything before we checked out.

We stepped onto the deserted streets of Bologna, our tip tapping boots echoing against the pavement. It was about 7:25 now and we quickened our pace. We had to make it to the hotel reception by 7:30 for breakfast. We gobbled up the sweet, white yogurt mixed with crunchy granola and hurried out this door as well. Mass was at 8am. Storming the streets once more, we were determined to make it there on time. Even running at some points, the Italians we were passing began to stare at us, wondering what could be so important on such a early Sunday morning.

It was at three minutes till that we realized we were still a good four blocks away from the Basilica and would not even make it back in time for our leaving train after mass which would probably end too late anyways. (Our train leaving town was at 9:37 and we still had to collect our luggage from the lobby.)

Even though each one of us had been so excited to finally attend a church, we acknowledged that it would be smarter to have our "own service."

We walked, slower this time, to the hotel lobby. About 20 minutes later, we were found sitting around an Italian breakfast table, reading out loud, the gospel of Mark. We took turns reading the sections between Palm Sunday and the crucification of Christ, passing the Bibles in between our coffee and tea cups.

That was how I celebrated my Easter Sunday. Praise God, He has risen.