Celebrating Easter Every Day . . . On Layton

The Cross on Layton

Easter approaches . . .
And some things haven't changed much on Layton through the years:

• Buying new clothes and shoes.
• Making a pilgrimage to church.
• Putting on a sumptuous ham dinner for the family.
• Hiding Easter baskets around the yard.
• Scattering eggs for an Easter egg hunt.
• Traveling to Myrtle Beach for spring family reunions.
• Rising early on Easter morning for the sunrise service at Mt. Bethel or Lackawanna State Park or at the end of Cherry Grove beach in South Carolina.

We did these things as children; we did them with my children and now my grandchildren.

One significant change has occurred . . . my increasing realization that Easter should be celebrated every day of the year.

Easter brings a sweet and precious HOPE that makes life worth living on Layton . . . and everywhere for that matter.

That HOPE centers on Jesus, God's Son, God Himself. He was born into the world to provide the final sacrifice for all those millions of things I have done to violate His standard of holiness. Left to my own devices, I wouldn't have a chance to meet that standard and enter eternity in heaven with Him. Eternity is certain, and the smell of hell is too much with me.

BUT Jesus stepped into time and took care of that problem in me and you for only one reason: LOVE. It's an unconditional love that I have trouble fully grasping. The sacrifice that was needed for my sin, He provided . . . on a cross at Calvary . . . His blood shed for the sins of many. The deal was sealed with His resurrection and victory over death.

Acceptance of His forgiveness and sacrifice gave me the greatest gifts I will ever receive: the hope of eternity in heaven with Him after death and the assurance of His presence each day in life.

Death and life . . . He has covered it all.

Now, His Spirit walks with me daily giving help, comfort, encouragement, wisdom, guidance. He has given the opportunity to intimately know and experience Him - day in and day out - on Layton.

That cross and resurrection were not exclusive to residents of a country road in rural USA. They stand as offers to people on Lombard Street in San Francisco, Abbey Road in London, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the Las Vegas Strip, Wall Street, the Champs Elysees, or Orchard Road in Singapore . . . any street, any time in history.

One of my favorite Easter hymns is called "He Lives." The lyrics voice our joy:

I serve a risen Savior,
He's in the world today;
I know that He is living,
Whatever men may say;
I see His hand of mercy,
I hear His voice of cheer,
And just the time I need Him,
He's always near.


He lives, He lives, Christ Jesus lives today!
He walks with me and talks with me
Along life's narrow way.
He lives, He lives, salvation to impart!
You ask me how I know He lives:
He lives within my heart.


Another of my favorites is "Because He Lives."

God sent His Son, they called Him Jesus.
He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

So . . . Easter approaches, but it's an every day holiday. And I'm celebrating under the cross . . .

 on Layton.

St. David's Day on Layton

Welsh National Flag

We celebrated St. David's Day this week on Layton.

St. David's Day is the Welsh national holiday, commemorated annually on March 1st in honor of Dewi Sant or St. David, the patron saint of Wales. Cardiff and Caernarvon throbbed with activity this week as the citizens turned out for their national holiday. 

Since she is colonel-in-chief of the 3rd Battalion of the The Royal Welsh, the Queen herself visited Swansea, Wales, this week for a traditional St. David's Day ceremony of presenting leeks to members of the battalion (there's an interesting cultural reward - an onion!). "According to legend, St. David advised the Britons on the eve of a battle with the Saxons, to wear leeks in their caps so as to easily distinguish friend from foe. This helped to secure a victory. Today, Welsh people wear leeks on St. David's Day, and soldiers in the Welsh regiments eat a raw leek." (National Welsh Museum)

Meanwhile, Prince Charles, also known as the Prince of Wales, and the Duchess of Cornwall, visited the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama in South Wales this week to celebrate with the native population. High ceremony helps the Welsh to remember and appreciate their ancient origins and culture.

There was somewhat less activity across the Atlantic on Layton for St. David's Day. Most of the Layton population probably didn't acknowledge the holiday, but the old homestead was abuzz with preparations. 

Bryn Terfel, the premier Welsh tenor, serenaded us on the stereo. The leg of lamb, bedded in cabbage and onions, slow roasted all day. The parsnips, turnips and squash were mashed. The classic Celtic piece d'resistance, the Welsh cookies, were fried and heaped on plates. The table, decorated with daffodils, the national flower of Wales, and Welsh dolls in traditional attire with Pilgrim style high hats, red skirts, and knitted capes, was readied for my guests, all of whom boasted Welsh roots. Abundant quantities of Earl Grey warmed in several teapots, wrapped in cozies . . . our annual St. David's celebration was in full swing. 

I follow the example of my mother and my Grandmother Jones by remembering our Welsh roots. Grandpa Jones (the most common surname in Wales is Jones) was born in North Wales. A typical Welshman, at about 5'4" with a feisty disposition and a scrappy physique, Grandpa could belt out a tune with the best tenors. Hands down, he had the strongest and sweetest voice at Mt. Bethel Baptist Church, where the family attended, as well as at a variety of pubs in the valley where the Welsh miners gathered to talk, argue, take a pint and . . . sing.

My dad, though not a pure bred Welshman like Grandpa, was born just over the border in Liverpool, England. These connections, plus a few other Welsh great-grandparents on the other side of the family, gave us the onus of bearing the Welsh heritage into future generations.

Like the Irish and the Polish, the Welsh migrated to this area in the early part of the twentieth century to work in the coal mines. With the prevalence of coal mines in Wales, it seemed natural that the Welsh would bring their mining skills to Lackawanna County to join the local mine works. They poured into the valley towns of Blakely, Olyphant, and Dickson City. In fact, several Welsh churches sprang up in the valley; the Welsh Baptist Church on the hill in Olyphant is still meeting. My grandparents joined the Welsh Baptist Church and the other coal mining families in Blakely and Olyphant.

In the 1950s-60s when I attended school, my mother made a very strong statement about our Welsh heritage, but she made the proclamation, annually, on . . . St. Patrick's Day! On St. Pat's Day Mom would cut the shape of a shamrock from an orange peel and pin the orange shamrock to our sweaters. The shamrock carried a sweet aroma and left a mark on my sweater. As I grew old enough to realize that the orange shamrock was a slap in the face of my Irish friends, whether or not they realized it, I began to slip the shamrock off while on the bus before I got to school. The orange vs. the green, Protestant vs. Catholic . . . the cultural milieu of the mid-twentieth century.

The family's attraction to all things Welsh had a powerful effect on the younger generations. It seemed natural that I should spend a semester of my junior year in college in the British Isles, meeting the relatives in Wales, Scotland and England and studying the history and literature of the land. That was 1969. 

Almost thirty years later in 1996, my son hauled off across the globe for a year to the University of Lancaster in England. No danger of considering him an Anglophile. At every opportunity he would trek off to Scotland (cousins in Kilsyth) or North Wales to climb Mt. Snowdon with a Welsh headmaster cousin or to camp among the sheep on the hills.

Heritage gives rootedness and depth. Whether Welsh, Irish, Polish, Lebanese, or Kenyan, identification with those who have gone before is a special gift. Connectedness with previous generations . . . one more blessing for which I am thankful.

Here's a St. David's Day gift for you . . .

My Grandmother's Welsh Cookie Recipe

(There are many Welsh cookie recipes out there. I have several in my files, but this is one of the best!)
4 cups flour      2 eggs

              3/4 lb. lard        1 cup buttermilk

            1 cup sugar      1 cup currants

                       1 tsp. salt          3 tsp. baking powder

                                       4 tsps. nutmeg

Work the flour and lard like pie crust. The batter will be sticky. Add baking powder, salt, nutmeg, and sugar. Drop in the eggs; add buttermilk and currants. Work the dough. Roll the dough in as little flour as possible. Cut the dough in circles. Fry in a 380 degree electric fry pan or on an electric griddle. Flip when golden brown.

Dydd Gwyl Dewi Hapus! (Happy St. David's Day!)
until next year . . . on Layton