The Easter I’ll Never Forget
Easter 1946 remains etched in my memory. I was 14, my sister Ocy was 12, and our older sister Darlene was 16. We lived with our mother, all too familiar with doing without. Our father had died five years earlier, leaving Mom alone with seven children and no financial support. By 1946, our older siblings had moved out—some married, others working—leaving the four of us still at home.
A month before Easter, our pastor announced that a special offering would be taken to help a needy family. He urged everyone to give sacrificially.
When we got home, we sat around the table and talked about what we could do. We decided to buy a 50-pound bag of potatoes and live on them for a whole month, saving $20 from our grocery budget. We kept the lights off and didn’t use the radio to save on electricity. Darlene took on extra housecleaning jobs, and Ocy and I babysat every chance we got. We also bought cotton loops for 15 cents to make potholders — three for a dollar — and ended up earning $20 selling them.
That month became one of the happiest we ever shared. Each day we counted our savings. At night, we’d sit in the dark and talk about how thrilled the lucky family would be to receive the church’s offering. With 80 people in our congregation, we figured our $70 would be just a small part of something much bigger.
The day before Easter, Ocy and I walked to the store and asked the grocer to exchange our coins and small bills for three crisp $20s and one $10. We raced home, bursting with pride. We had never held so much money. We could hardly sleep that night — it didn’t matter that we had no new clothes. We were eager to give.
It poured on Easter morning. We had no umbrella, and the church was nearly a mile away. Darlene had cardboard in her shoes to cover the holes — but the rain soaked them. Still, we walked to church with joy. As we sat in the second row, I overheard other kids whispering about our old dresses, but seeing them in their new ones only made me feel richer inside.
When the offering plate came, Mom gave $10, and each of us girls gave $20. We sang all the way home. At lunch, Mom surprised us with a dozen eggs — a real treat with our usual fried potatoes.
Later that afternoon, the pastor stopped by. He spoke briefly with Mom and handed her an envelope. Inside was a sum of money: three $20 bills, a $10, and seventeen $1 bills. We sat silently. It hit us—we were the “needy family” the offering was meant for.
The joy we’d felt evaporated into quiet shame. We had thought we were giving to someone who had it harder than we did. We never saw ourselves as poor. Sure, we had few possessions, but we had love, laughter, and a full house. That day, we realized others saw us differently. I hated the thought. I didn’t want to go back to church. I didn’t want anyone else to know.
I thought about quitting school, even though I was top of my ninth-grade class. The law only required education through the eighth grade anyway.
That whole week, our home was silent. Finally, on Saturday, Mom asked what we wanted to do with the money. None of us had an answer. What did poor people do with money?
We didn’t want to go to church on Sunday, but Mom insisted. It was a bright, sunny day, but the walk was quiet. Mom sang softly, but no one joined in. That morning, a missionary guest spoke about churches in Africa built from sun-dried bricks — roofs being the most costly part. He said $100 would buy a roof and asked, “Can’t we all make a sacrifice for these people?”
For the first time in a week, we smiled.
Without a word, Mom reached into her purse and handed the envelope to Darlene, who passed it to me. I gave it to Ocy, and she placed it in the offering.
After the collection, the pastor shared that a little over $100 had been raised. The missionary was stunned and said, “You must have some wealthy folks in this church.”
And that’s when it hit us — we had given $87 of that total. We were the “rich people” he was talking about!
From that moment on, I’ve never considered myself poor again. I’ve carried with me the lesson that wealth isn’t about what you have — it’s about what you give. And I’ve always remembered how rich I truly am because I have Jesus.