There is a desperation in the darkness; a kind of hopeless sadness. We – many of us – have experienced that place where our breath stops temporarily without our notice and gladness is far from our grasp. Where heartache melts into emptiness. Where questions have no answers and no words can express what hurt cannot speak. Happy memories are muted. Dreams dashed.

It is, perhaps, the place the disciples found themselves on that very dark day we call Good Friday. It had been a few glorious years of soaking in more wisdom and understanding than they had thought possible in a lifetime! Witnessing the delightful unbelievable! Hoping and planning for a revisitation – no, better – of the kingdom of David, Israel’s greatest king! And they were living it!

It all fell to pieces in a weekend. And here they were – together, because they couldn’t bear it alone and because he had taught them well. They were carrying on, but they were afraid and they were hiding. Jesus was crucified. What if they were next? And then.

Mary burst through the door talking so fast, they had trouble understanding her. But Peter and John were out the door like a shot. They were out of breath as they reached the tomb, the tomb with the heavy boulder rolled from the entrance. Mary couldn’t have done that. They, themselves, weren’t strong enough to do it. They peered inside, then stepped through the opening and their breath caught at the sight of folded grave clothes. And something more: no doubt it was an angel. He is not here. He is risen as He said. They heard the angel’s voice, but . . . expectations are funny things. They can blind you, if you let them. Mary’s claims rang in their minds as they fought back with logic. It couldn’t be.

But it was. Oh it was!

The world spins on its axis. Seasons arrive on a fixed schedule as do day and night. We know that when someone is very, very ill, there is little chance of recovery. When someone dies, there is none.

And yet. And yet, the God who set planets, moons, and stars in the heavens is the same God who is present with us. You think miracles are for children’s stories? Think again.

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