Easter Sunday always takes me by surprise. After the long shadows of Good Friday, after the silence of the tomb, it arrives not with fanfare, but with a whisper: “He is not here; he has risen.” (Luke 24:6)
And suddenly, the world is turned on its head.
I’ve carried the weight of grief. The betrayal, the heartache, the stillness of unanswered prayers – it lingers like a fog some mornings. But Easter doesn’t erase that. It transforms it. It says, “Yes, death came… but death didn’t get the final word.” And that is a hope I can cling to.
I imagine the women that morning, walking to the tomb at first light, their hearts as heavy as the spices they carried. They weren’t expecting a miracle. They were simply doing what love does – showing up, even when hope seems buried. But the stone was rolled away. The body gone. Angels where there should have been silence.
And then – those words that still echo through the ages: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” (Luke 24:5)
It’s a question that stops me in my tracks. How often do I return to old griefs, old failures, old wounds – as though life might still be found among them? As though hope could be found sifting through the ashes? Easter reminds me: the story doesn’t end in the tomb. The stone was not just moved – it was removed. The barrier is gone.
I think of Peter, too – poor Peter. The man who swore he’d never deny Jesus, and then did so three times before the cock crowed. Imagine the shame, the guilt, the sinking dread in his gut when he heard Jesus had died. But resurrection meant redemption. Jesus didn’t come back with a grudge – he came back with grace. “Peace be with you,” he said to the very ones who had scattered (John 20:19).
That’s the Jesus I believe in. Not a Saviour with a checklist, but one with scars. He didn’t rise to impress; he rose to restore.
And as for me, well… life hasn’t been a smooth ride. I’ve felt the sting of promises broken, of trust shattered like glass on cobblestones. But Easter reminds me that broken things can be mended. That even after the darkest night, there’s a dawn – and not just any dawn, but one lit with resurrection light.
Easter doesn’t demand perfection. It invites participation. It calls me not to tidy up before I meet Christ, but to come as I am – to the garden, to the empty tomb, to the quiet place where death once ruled but now stands hollow.
It is not naïve optimism. It is gritty, grounded hope. Like a flower pushing through cracked pavement. Like a sunrise after weeks of grey. It is the voice that says, “You are not done yet. There is more.”
So today, I lift my head. I dare to believe again. Because Christ has risen – and in him, so can I.
Wording 