Risen, Fallen, and Slightly Traumatized

Most people remember Easter as pastel outfits, chocolate bunnies, egg hunts, and nice family dinners. I fondly remember hauling chairs out of a funeral parlor and watching my dad’s leg break.

Easter wasn’t a holiday in our house. It was a full-blown restaurant marathon with a little Jesus on the side. We lived upstairs from our family restaurant, so while other kids were finding eggs, I was cleaning strawberries, busing tables, and running the dessert station like a tiny, underpaid employee.

However, my favorite Easter tradition was going to the local funeral home with my dad to borrow extra chairs for the dining room. I suppose nothing says “He is risen” like a trip to the funeral parlor.

I was nine years old the year this particular memory locked itself into my brain forever. As the only child available to help on this day, I felt very important. It was Holy Saturday, and we went to pick up chairs from a funeral director my dad knew. Much to my chagrin, there happened to be a wake going on when we got there.

So there we were, quietly sneaking back and forth, carrying chairs out of a funeral home, carefully trying not to make eye contact with grieving people. All while pretending like this was a totally normal errand.

And then it happened.

A loud “CRACK” that felt wildly inappropriate for the setting and my father hit the ground. Hard.

Every grieving person’s eyes turned our way, and honestly, we could not have scripted worse timing.

The funeral director ran over to dad, completely panicked. Most people did not know my dad had a wooden leg, so when my dad calmly said, “My leg just broke,” it did not exactly ease the tension in the room.

The poor funeral director looked like he was about to pass out; which frankly felt like the wrong building for that kind of excitement.

He helped my dad outside, as I loaded the rest of the chairs with lightening speed.  I was hoping we could make a quick escape, but once we got into the truck, my dad just sat there, thinking.

Then he said “You’re going to have to help me drive.”

Now, before you picture anything heroic, let me explain. His truck was a standard. His wooden leg was broken…and I was nine. I was not allowed to get a 10 speed bike yet, but he thought it was a good idea that I suddenly co-pilot a truck?

Daddy explained that I was to sit on the floor and push the clutch in with my hand every time he told me “shift.” (And I wonder why I have anxiety.)

The entire three-mile drive home, I was sitting on the floor, waiting for him to say “SHIFT,” terrified I was going to stall the truck, crash us into something, or somehow kill both of us. We made it back alive, which honestly felt like a miracle.

Hopping back into the house with my help, dad simply had me grab a different leg so he could put it on and get right back to work.

In the Schueler family, even a broken limb would not get you out of working Easter. And to this day, that is still one of the funniest Easter memories I have.