There ought to be lilies.

This is what Easter is supposed to look like: Rising in the dark, a sense of Something Special hovering in the silent house. Blackness through the kitchen window as the ham slides into the oven.

Alarm clocks buzzing, the kids turning in their beds with a humph before their consciousness grabs hold of the day and they sit up, rubbing their eyes.

Flowy skirt, shirt and tie, sleepy-awake smiles as the sky begins to brighten.

Car door slams; slams again; trot back inside for the forgotten colored eggs commissioned for the youth group casserole-and-sausage breakfast.

Church doors. Friendly faces, edged with undefined excitement in the pale light. Pastels, pinks and yellows, handshakes and warm voices as the eggs are dropped off in the kitchen.

And then … lilies. Tickling the nose, first, the scent of expectation. Then — with a glorious “Ta-da!” — white trumpets blaring, posing on pedestals, climbing a railing, flanking the altar, nodding encouragements and sincere greetings, potted lilies in purple and yellow foil wrappers wave to all who come.

Packed in pews, comfortably shoulder-to-shoulder, the regulars and the seekers and the tentative first-timers and the squirming children with their crayons and visions of jelly beans breathe in unison, palpable togetherness mingling disparate lives for an hour.

Amid the joyous enthusiasms.of the lilies, blended voices raise, eager, heart-full, as eyes moisten: “He is risen, indeed!”

The music swells and lifts, and together, they sing. Jesus Christ is risen today. I know that my Redeemer lives.

After, some stay for breakfast. Some head to family gatherings and hams and green bean casserole. Before they go, arms wrap around shoulders, hands clasp hands, conversations linger near the coat rack.

They go, finally, and the church is once again quiet. In the sanctuary, the lilies nod.

That’s Easter.

Except in a pandemic.

This year, there won’t be that first, exotic scent of lilies when church doors open. There won’t be families in their Sunday best, girls in taffeta dresses giggling between the grown-ups, white-haired parents proudly introducing grandchildren.

This year, there will be no youth group egg bakes, no children scrambling across church lawns to find plastic eggs tucked full of trinkets.

This year, there will be no one-voice-made-of-many rising to the ceiling, months of Lenten gloom giving vent to a thrilling, “Alleluia!”

A virus has taken away the Easter that should be.

It’s not fair, the heart cries. All of this. All of the change. All of the loss. The staying home. The looming fear. The masks. The deaths.

If ever we needed Easter, it’s now. Now, with homes and hearts besieged by anxiety.

We need anticipation, and hope, and a day being what it ought to be.

We need promises of a new life. We need death to be broken.

We need hugs, and music, and lilies.

***

About a week ago, during a quick, well-sanitized trip to the store, I bought a potted Easter lily.

It’s sitting on a table near my desk at work, its matte-finish trumpet flowers tooting a reminder that it needs to be watered.

You know what? Turns out, when you’re wrapped in the scent of Easter lilies eight hours a day for a whole week … they kinda stink.

There’s a picture we hold in our heads, I think, of Life, As It Should Be. If all were right, if life were fair, it would be like such-and-such.

The sun would shine. Our jobs would be secure. Our parents and children would be safe. Our hams would never burn, and our lilies would smell like resurrection.

It’s not like such-and-such for most of us, now, not when the world is topsy-turvy and the rules have all changed.

Frankly, though, even without the chaos of a major medical crisis, those pictures of a Right Life don’t hold true.

There’s always instability, to a greater or lesser degree. Fear and anxiety are always lurking, ready to jump into our lives whenever there’s a hole to fill. Days are gloomy, times are tough, projects and people are imperfect.

Lilies, as it turns out, kinda stink.

We need hope today. And we need it every day. We need reassurance in this troubled time, and we need it in every other time, too.

During tough days ahead, as now, as in all tough days of the past, there has been, there is, there will be hope. Reassurance. A place to lean.

The lack of an egg casserole can do nothing to change the fact of a Savoir dying and rising. A few fewer Easter handshakes may leave a hole in the day, but the whole of humanity is still extended a hand to which to cling, when the sun shines and when it rains.

I know that my Redeemer lives. I know that I’m not alone, even when times are tough. I know that Someone loves me, enough to die for me, enough to live for me, even though I’m far from perfect.

Everything is different.

But nothing has changed.

Alleluia.