11

Easter Sunday

Under the influence of the genial atmosphere of spring, the snow had melted from the ground. Here and there could be seen little patches of green grass, while some of the many trees around the institution were covered with tiny buds, almost ready to unfold into leaf or blossom.

It was Sunday morning, and the girls tripping lightly downstairs and entering the dining room were surprised to see on all the tables dishes of boiled eggs. Then it dawned upon some of the more enlightened minds that it was Easter Sunday. The eggs were eaten with a relish, but with scarcely a thought of the event they were designed to commemorate.

The morning hour of Bible study passed, and then all repaired to the chapel for the customary Sunday morning service. As they entered and took their seats the attention of almost everyone was attracted to a number of beautiful hothouse plants, some of them in bloom, tastefully arranged on the platform. After admiring this unusual display, attention was turned to the Easter service, which was about to begin. This service did not consist in proclaiming by music and song, “Christ is risen”; there were no responses declaring “he is risen indeed.” No; there was no music, no sound. In voiceless language the old yet ever-new, ever-wonderful story of the resurrection was told to the gathered throng, who, with bright eyes fixed intently upon the narrator, drank in the wondrous story of redeeming love and its triumph over death. This narrative was followed by prayer, and the Easter service was finished.

The boys and girls—some of them, no doubt, with new impressions of the glory and power of Christ—went from the chapel to their study rooms, where they engaged in pleasant, quiet conversation until the dinner hour came. After dinner another service was held as usual, but it was devoted to another theme. Softly, calmly sped the Sabbath hours away. One by one they silently came and passed, leaving behind no vestige of their presence save the record graven upon memory’s tablets. The sun disappeared in golden splendor behind the western horizon; twilight shadows deepened; gaslight took the place of the departed light of day; swiftly moving fingers spelled out the lessons of truth and love from God’s Holy Bible, some of which would live forever in the memory. The study hour passed; books were closed and laid aside.

The day, with all its events, was gone, never to return; yet thoughts of him “who hath swallowed up death in victory” and “is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him,” were to survive and gladden many a silent life. The reflection, “Jesus cared enough for me to die for me; and he has risen and gone again to his home in heaven, from whence he watches over me; and I know if I am good he will save me, and I will not be deaf and dumb in heaven,” has power to cheer and help many of these silent ones when, as is not unfrequently the case, something causes them to feel bitterly their loss of hearing and speech. Ah, Jesus is indeed a silent comforter, one whom every deaf and dumb person should know, and, knowing him, they will love him.