My savior, my dad

The first Easter I remember distinctly was 1990. I was 5, Scotty was 8. We were dressed up as Jewish village children, wearing bathrobes, no shoes and sheets over our our heads for our roles in the Easter production at First Christian Church. We were playing by ourselves int the nursery before the show started. Things happened and Scott got mad and pushed me. I fell against the rocker of a rocking chair, splitting my scalp open.

I remember wandering up and down the hallways at church crying, trying to find my mom. I finally found her in a room with other ladies, putting on their robes. My mom was Mary, the mother of Jesus. She was always Mary in the Easter play. The back of my head was covered in blood. A doctor friend of ours washed my wound in the bathroom sink and knotted my hair together to keep the wound closed. I didn't even have to go to the hospital.

They found someone to watch me during the play, and the show went on. It had to, of course: My mom was Mary.

And my dad was Jesus.

As long as I can remember, Dad was Jesus in the Easter play. In late February or March he'd start growing his Easter beard, a thick fur of black hair all over his face. It was the only time of year he'd have a beard. He was great at being Jesus. His voice was deep and commanding, and when he'd call Lazarus forth from the tomb, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. He'd cling to the nails sticking out of the cross and hold on as they lifted him up on the stage. He never fell off. Remembering those shows gives me goosebumps.

The church did a traditional Passion Play — the last week of Jesus from the Triumphant Entry to the Resurrection. We used palm branches and real donkeys. The month before was full of long nights in the sanctuary, watching rehearsals. I loved those nights.

PJ Sparkles: Risen from the dead

My favorite memory was a rehearsal for the scene in which Jesus raises a little dead girl. Except the dead girl was gone that day. On stand-in was PJ Sparkles — my favorite doll at the time, whom I carried everywhere. You pushed a heart on her chest and she lit up. The greiving father handed Miss Sparkles to Dad/Jesus, he pushed her button and held her high above the crowd. "She's not dead, her batteries are low!"

When I split my head open, Dad was already in his Jesus costume: White robe with a blue sash. He cradled me gently as I cried, but warned, "Don't get blood on Jesus' robes, honey."

I've sometimes wondered if my dad as Jesus somehow gave me a complex about actual Jesus. As if there might be some sort of Freudian association now that has forced me to project characteristics of my earthly father on to my heavenly father. They say we do that anyway — that people who have bad relationships with their dads sometimes have a hard time accepting God as a father figure.

There are some traits of my dad that I'm happy to project onto Jesus: He's always been a comforter for me, someone who would rock me late at night when I had a bad dream or would bring me treats when I felt sick. He's always been a playmate and would carve out special time just for me. I am Daddy's Little Girl and know that I'll always be special to him. I'm happy every Easter to remember my strong, confident dad bringing the message of salvation to the audience at First Christian.

But human fathers are complex and life gets in the way of even our best intentions.

But that's where the similarities between my daddy, my savior and Jesus, my Savior, end. Life never gets in Jesus' way. He's always happy to reach down and pick me up. He always stands up for me when I need it, comforts me when I'm sad and guides me when I'm lost. And he never minds if my life gets his robes a little messy.