There was a man named George who was accustomed to driving his wife, Rosie, to church. They had a long and happy marriage; their love for each other was monumental. They did everything together; everything, that is, except one thing. When George drove Rosie to church each Sunday, she went in but he did not. He remained in the car, reading the newspaper.

After 45 years of marriage, Rosie died. George was distraught with grief. On Sunday mornings George no longer made that drive to church, transporting Rosie. But several months after her death Easter Sunday rolled around. George drove to the church and he went in. The pastor delivered a stirring resurrection sermon and then closed with prayer.

Then there were a few moments of silence as the pastor prepared to announce the final hymn. Suddenly George stood up and with deep emotion declared loudly, "Rosie lives!" Then he began to sing with a deep, rich baritone voice that song that he had always associated with Rosie --"My Wild Irish Rose, the Sweetest Flower That Grows..." The congregation was stunned at first. But several people in the congregation knew George and how he was grieving for Rosie. They stood up and joined in the song. Then more and more people joined into the song. Finally, the whole congregation was joyfully and tearfully singing a glorious, secular Easter hymn.