The church site is busy with the annual fete. People from the church community, from the local area, even from interstate, meander through the stalls, devonshire teas, barbecues and treasures – still undiscovered.
The sanctuary, usually quiet, dark and still on a Saturday, is full of children, parents and leaders singing and dancing.
A man opens the only closed door on the premises. Slips through it. Glances at the people – the sanctuary that is full of life and laughter. He returns to the cold of outside where his wife and a baby cradled in her arms are waiting for him.
The door re-opens. Some-one goes out to greet him.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We are on our way home from the hospital.’ He beams as he introduces his wife and newborn son. ‘We want to give thanks to God. Could we use your church to pray?’
They are ushered in midst the noise, the singing, the dancing.
The altar is bustling with children and music.
But, in front of the garden, the crosses and open tomb are still in place after Easter.
And that is where the brand new father and mother unwrap their tiny son, place him on the ground and bow their heads.
New life, in the same place as we remember His death.
Sacrifice of thanks, midst the chaos.
Midst the noise, the singing, the dancing – perfect peace.