04/05/2026
This Easter morning wakes slowly... snow and ice continueing to pile deep... as if winter has forgotten... that its time... past time... to go...
And up on the bluff...
the little church at Central quietly stands guard... the way it always has... steady... weather worn... but still holding vigil... over the town... where her families once lived...
And although her pine pews... to our eyes at least... may seem empty... the howl of the wind... and the swaying of the branches outside... are in sharp contrast... to the deep stillness... the quiet calm... found within... almost a sigh... a long wooden hush...
of a place that remembers...
more than it says...
But this place…
this place does remember... the importance...and meaning... of Easter morning...
Memories of Cornish voices... rumbling baritones... as deep as the mine itself... tenors altos sopranos... lifting the hymns up toward the heavens...
miners dressed in their Sunday best... mothers and children... sporting Easter bonnets... new shoes and ribbons... the vocals playfully rising... shaking the dust from the rafters... in songs of Easter grace...
It remembers the men...
who came to grass... from the deep dark shafts... the weeks work... no matter how hard they scrubbed... stubbornly clinging to their skin.... straightening their backs... as they crossed the threshold... for the very act of entering... lightened the load they all carried...
It remembers the women... hands red and chapped... from the never ending mountain of daily chores...
shawls pulled tight...
cheeks pink from the cold...
bringing whatever flowers
could be coaxed... from coffee tins set on the kitchen sills...
lilies... tulips... a dash of color...
to warm the long Keweenaw winter....
It remembers the children...
whispering in Cornish lilt...
swinging their legs... patiently
waiting... for the organ to strike the first chord...
And then...
the singing...
Oh... the singing...
For... no more musical a people than the Cornish... can be found on an Easter morn...
Rising like a tide...
full and fierce...
lifting the roof...
trembling the windows...
rolling out across the bluff...
until even the tall pines high up on the cliffs... seemed to lean in....
But today...
the only hymn to be heard... is the wind... threading through the eaves...
Today... the choir is quiet... at least to our ears...
For this morning... the pews sit empty... waiting... for someone who hasn’t yet arrived...
But the little church is far from empty...
Not ever....
Because within her walls... her collection of memories await...
steady...
faithful...
unfading....
And if you stand still...
long enough...
quiet enough...
you feel them...
the miners...
the mothers...
the children...
settling back into their places... their backs straight against the pews...
as if the Easter mornings...
never ended... and maybe... just maybe... they never have....
For the spirit of the little church on the bluff... is a living memory...
Still keeping its vigil...
keeping its promise...
to all who once... and still do... sing here...
and all who still value... the memories... that are worth remembering...
Happiest of Easter mornings from the Central Mine Methodist Church...