He Is Risen

He Is Risen

He is risen. He is risen indeed.

I have said those words hundreds of times, but this morning they landed differently. Maybe it's the week of sitting with Friday and Saturday — the grief, the silence — that made Sunday feel so necessary, so astonishing.

The resurrection is not a metaphor. It is not a feeling or a spiritual concept. It is an event. An empty tomb. A folded burial cloth. A woman's name spoken in a garden. Mary. And everything changed.

If Christ is raised — truly raised — then death does not have the last word. Not for Him, not for us, not for anything we have grieved and surrendered. I am walking in Easter light today, and I am grateful.