Resurrection.

The quiet descends like an unexpected visitor on Good Friday morning. Every year, this Lenten period weaves through my days like a thread of contemplation, gradually slowing the frantic pace of life until everything comes to a reverent standstill.

Easter long weekends have always felt sacred to me - moments set apart from ordinary time, inviting us into something deeper.

This season feels like a semi-colon in the narrative of my year; not a full stop, but a meaningful pause that connects what came before with what lies ahead. It's in this pause that I find space to breathe, to reflect, and to remember the profound journey from darkness to light that Easter represents.

Good Friday arrives with its somber weight. The hours stretch longer somehow, marked by a heaviness that mirrors the journey to Calvary.
I find myself drawn to silence, to stillness…allowing the magnitude of sacrifice to settle in my heart. There's something powerful about sitting with discomfort rather than rushing past it. In a world that constantly pushes us toward happiness and away from pain, Good Friday beckons us to remain present in the suffering, knowing it isn't the end of the story.

And then, Sunday comes.

Resurrected. Resurrected. He is Risen.

These words echo through centuries, across cultures and continents, carrying a truth that transforms everything. My mind returns to this reality again and again - the stone has been rolled away. The tomb stands empty. Death itself has been defeated.

A rising. After death and bloodshed. After multiple falls beneath the weight of a wooden cross that bore the sins of humanity.

A rising. After the body merged with the dirt of the earth, fulfilling ancient prophecies spoken long before.

A rising. After darkness covered the land and the temple veil was torn from top to bottom.

Each Easter, I'm reminded that we are people of resurrection - followers of a God who lives and breathes and moves.
A reality that reshapes how I approach each day.

The Easter message whispers hope into the darkest corners of our lives. It reminds us that our endings can become beginnings, that our failures aren't final, that our weaknesses can become the very places where new strength emerges. The old is indeed gone, swept away like the stone from the tomb's entrance.

A new pathway stretches before us, waiting to be walked in surrender and trust.

As the dawn breaks on Easter morning, I feel something stirring within - a remembrance that the same power that conquered death lives in me. In us. It propels us forward into a world that desperately needs resurrection stories of its own.

What would it mean to truly live as resurrection people throughout the year? To approach our relationships, our work, our struggles with the certainty that new life can emerge from what appears dead and finished? To walk our paths with the confidence that comes from knowing there is no greater plan than God's?

As the celebration meals are shared and Easter eggs are found, I hold this truth close: we follow a God who didn't stay in the grave. A God who transforms endings into beginnings. A God who lives.

And because He lives, so can we.