IN YOUR EASTER BONNET

 “In your Easter Bonnet
With all the frills upon it
You’ll be the grandest lady
In the Easter Parade.”
-Irving Berlin

My husband and I were stopped at a red light in Red Bank last Sunday, just as a Baptist church service was ending.  Something about the women who were walking down the church steps and gathering on the sidewalk caught my eye.  Something about them was different from the women who attend my church, a Catholic Church; almost every one of them was wearing a hat.  And, it wasn’t even Easter yet. 

The flowers on the women’s hats made them look like a moving garden, as they laughed and chatted on the sidewalk.  They were dressed from top to bottom in what I’d call their “Sunday Best.

I thought to myself, “What happened to my Sunday Best?  I haven’t gotten that dressed up since the last time I went to a wedding.” 

The women looked like they had made an effort to come to church.  They looked as if they were saying, “I respect this day and I’m going to show it.”

It made me long for the days when I was growing up and Catholics were expected to show that they respected Sunday, too.  When I was little, a girl wouldn’t be caught dead in church without a hat or, at the very least, a doily pinned to the top of her head with a bobby pin.  On school trips, the nuns made us wear berets which matched our uniforms. 

The nuns always kept a supply of doilies in their pockets for girls who forgot or lost them.  Sometimes, the supply ran out.  In that case, we were forced to hunt down to the bottom of our pockets for a handkerchief.  The nuns would make us pin the handkerchief to our heads.  Wearing a handkerchief on your head was as good as wearing a sign around your neck that said, “I’m a heathen!  I forgot to wear a hat in The House of the Lord.”  It was pretty embarrassing.

I can’t remember exactly when the Catholic Church stopped requiring me to wear a hat, or to dress up on Sunday, for that matter.  It seems like one day, the Mass was being said in Latin and the next day it was being said in English and I was wearing blue jeans to Church.  Blue jeans!  And sneakers!  And sandals in the summer.  I draw the line at shorts, though.  I simply cannot bring myself to show my legs at the altar.  

When I was a girl, it seemed like my entire fashion world revolved around Easter Sunday and all the clothes that went with it.  Ah, the dress!  I can still see my favorite one, a peach flowered pastel with a belt that tied in the back.  It sort of shimmered in the sunlight.  I had to try it on at least twenty times before Easter morning.  I was convinced I’d grow out of it before then.

And the shoes!  Always patent leather that you had to shine with Vaseline Petroleum Jelly.  A rumor went around one year about the nuns not liking patent leather because the boys could see up our dresses, if they looked at our shoes at just the right angle.  A nun actually tried to enforce a “No Patent Leather Policy” one year, but the mothers complained and won.

The purse was also patent leather.  I spent hours organizing it, the night before Easter.  I don’t know why it took me so long.  All that was in it was a handkerchief and my Rosary beads.  But, it made me feel so grown up, because it was the only day of the year when I was allowed to carry a purse.

And white gloves.  You had to wear white gloves on Easter.  I don’t know who made up that rule, but I loved it.

But the dress, the shoes, the purse and the gloves didn’t add up to the importance of the Easter Bonnet.  Back in those days, it was all about The Hat.  Almost always straw, the hat had to be the right size, the right shape and have the right bow and/or flower.  It had to be perfect.  You just couldn’t wear that hat; it had to transform you.  With that hat on your head, you could meet the Queen of England and not sweat a drop.  You could stand in front of a microphone down in Washington, DC and give a speech to a million people, without having to clear your throat once.  You could walk up the steps to receive an Oscar without tripping.  That hat gave you confidence.

I don’t know who told us that we didn’t have to wear hats anymore to Church, but I wish I could call him or her up and have them change the rule back again.  Or maybe I’ll just start wearing a hat again myself and see if I can start a “new” trend. 

I don’t think anyone told those women at the Baptist church that they “have” to wear hats on Sunday.  They just do it all on their own.  Maybe they think that Jesus prefers it.  Maybe they think that Jesus expects it.  Maybe they feel that, with all the things God’s given to them, dressing up for Him on Sunday is the least they can do.  Whatever the reason, it brought a smile to my face last Sunday.  And I’m sure that it brought a smile to God’s face, too.