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My mother was not a fan of wearing white before Easter.

It was a rule as hard and fast as "No singing at the table," or "Share with your brother." No white pants or shoes until Easter (and not after Labor Day, for the record).

Buying a new Easter dress was one of our rites of spring. Even though I appreciated the pastels of Easter, nothing represented Easter Sunday more than white to me. 

By the time I reached junior high school, I had my own ideas about style and insisted on driving the decision process about which dress I would wear on Easter morning. My gentle mother set basic guidelines and had veto power, but for the most part, she went right along with my sartorial choices. 

When I think about the Easters from long ago, the memory that stands out most isn't of the many raucous, near blood-sport Easter egg hunts with dozens of cousins. Instead, it was early, early on the Easter morning when I was in the ninth grade. 

Our small town hosted a community sunrise service at the school's football field. Those who joined the service sat in the home-team stands with a view to the east so they could watch the sun rise. I grew up going to those services every year. When I reached the ninth grade, someone in charge of the program decided that they would get various youth to participate in the service. I was asked to do a prayer. 

I remember being happy about this for a variety of reasons — one of which was that I had picked out a real winner of an Easter dress that year. It was white with bold and colorful flowers embroidered on the tiny cap sleeves and around the trim along the hem. I thought that dress was stunning.

The night before Easter, I had it out and made sure it was ironed and ready. 

Part of the excitement of Easter morning in 1979 was seeing which dresses everyone else had picked out. With a significant lack of humility, I was certain that mine would shine brightly.

I had to be at the football field early that morning so I ran out the door before the rest of my family and headed that way. 

I'm not sure at what point I realized that it was cold, as in very cold, but I do know that by the time I did, it was too late. With no cellphone to call and ask Mom to bring a sweater, I took my place in a cold metal folding chair on a cinder track, wearing a near sleeveless dress, shivering for at least an hour facing the bulk of my town sitting in the bleachers as the sun rose behind me.

When I think about the coldest I've ever been, that sunrise service and white dress always come to mind. It was the sleeveless part that nearly did me in. 

To be sure, it was not the Easter morning I had envisioned.

All these years later, I recognize that I clearly missed the whole point of Easter that year. Even still, I do remember someone that morning talking about the empty tomb and the hope it represents.

Lately, I've thought about that cold morning and re-welcomed the notion that sometimes hope doesn't arrive with a whole lot of fanfare.

Regardless of religious belief, I believe most, if not all of us, can appreciate the idea of focusing on hope in the face of emptiness.

With all the things that distract, worry and concern us, this time of year can be a reminder of the good that can come from leaving space for hope in things unseen and unearned.

Granted, there is a chance that this season may not feel hopeful. Some chairs are empty. Some stories don’t have tidy endings. That tension is part of the Easter story too.

Empty doesn’t always mean loss. Sometimes, what is empty is just the space where something new can rise.

Whatever you believe, wherever you are this weekend, I hope you find a quiet and hopeful moment — one that feels like stepping into warm sunlight after three days of dark and cold.