When Easter Hits Hard

It's okay if you're not feeling it.

I don’t know what your Easter looks like this year. Maybe it’s pastel dresses and deviled eggs arranged like you’re auditioning for Southern Living. Maybe it’s a honey-baked ham and somebody arguing over who forgot the rolls. Maybe it’s sitting in a pew trying to keep your eyes open while your mind is making a grocery list and judging the woman in front of you for wearing too much perfume. Or maybe it doesn’t feel very Eastery at all.

Maybe you showed up carrying something heavy. A prayer that hasn’t been answered. A story that hasn’t turned around yet. A piece of your life that still feels like Friday, not Sunday. And if that’s you, sugar, you are not the only one. Not even close.

Because Easter didn’t start with lilies and hallelujahs. It started in the dark. It started with confusion, with grief, with a stone that looked permanent. Those women didn’t walk to the tomb expecting a miracle. They walked there expecting to tend to what was dead. Let that sink in a minute. They weren’t hopeful. They were faithful. They showed up anyway. And somewhere between their heartbreak and that stone, everything changed.

I think we miss Easter sometimes because we’re looking for the celebration, when the miracle is actually hiding in the showing up. In the walking. In the carrying. In the going anyway when your heart isn’t sure. Because resurrection doesn’t always look like trumpets and sunshine. Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed when you didn’t want to, telling the truth you’ve been hiding, or choosing to believe, just a little, that your story isn’t over. Sometimes the stone doesn’t roll away all at once. Sometimes it shifts. Just enough to let a little light in. And baby, sometimes that little bit of light is all you’ve got to work with. But it’s enough to take the next step.

And here’s what I keep thinking about this year. What if the miracle wasn’t just that the tomb was empty? What if the miracle was that death didn’t get the final word? Not then. Not now. Not in your story either.

So wherever you find yourself today - at a crowded table, in a quiet house, in a church, in your car, in the middle of something that feels unfinished - hear this: the story isn’t over. Not because everything is fixed. Not because everything makes sense. But because the Author of this story has a track record of rewriting endings. Honey, He has been flipping impossible stories since the beginning of time.

So today, maybe you don’t need to feel the joy yet. Maybe your only job is to show up. To walk toward the thing that feels heavy. To believe, even if it’s just a whisper, that something could still change. To crack the door on hope even if you don’t swing it wide open yet. Because Easter doesn’t require perfection. Lord knows none of us are bringing that to the table. It just requires presence.

Happy Easter, friend. Even if it’s a quiet one. Even if it’s a messy one. Even if it’s just the beginning. Now, pass the chocolate.