It’s been a hard few years. (If you’ve been around here for any length of time, you’re probably in touch with that already.) Growing up is more difficult than I ever imagined it to be, my body feels like it’s falling apart, and it’s hard to know where to even begin to try and set things to rights.
Still, there have been so many moments of grace sprinkled in with all the hard things. Even when the world feels like death, there are always whispers and shouts of resurrection.
But sometimes I miss them.
Sometimes I’m too angry or bitter or cynical or distracted and they pass me by.
So I’m working on opening my eyes. I’m trying to practice seeing. To look for the places where resurrection is invading the humdrum and making something sacred out of what seems to be so ordinary.
I think one of my favorite things about Easter is that it’s fifty days long. We feast longer than we fast, and we live longer than we are to die. This year, I’m trying to lean into all seven weeks of celebration. If death is our Lenten discipline, then surely life must be our Easter discipline. So I am looking.
I’m spending these fifty days hunting for resurrection. Except I don’t really have to hunt—I just have to see where resurrection is already having her way in my life and my heart.
Part of mending means detangling the knot of cynicism that has lodged itself in the pit of my stomach. That’s not something I can do on my own, though. It’s something only God can do, and it’s something he’s already doing, if only I will learn to open my eyes.
So for the next fifty days, I’m looking. I’ll be documenting some of what I find—mainly to remind myself to look, but also as a reminder that even when I can’t see it, life is making its way toward me.
That is, after all, what the resurrection means. Death doesn’t get the last word. Love does. Life does. So this Easter, I’m hunting. Will you join me? I can’t wait to see what we find.