Easter morning: My eyes pop open to the strains of the "Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel's Messiah. My sister and I know to expect Bev Gallucci's version of "He's Alive" next, and that means one thing.
It's one of the few mornings a year sleep holds no temptation for us. As Bev's soprano voice reaches notes in the stratosphere, my dad bursts into the room. He sings at the top of his lungs with a goofy grin. "He's alive!"



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