Brief Thoughts from Bren: After the Stone Is Rolled Away

The lilies have wilted. The leftover ham is gone. The Alleluias rang out, and most everyone has moved on. But here on the farm, the resurrection still lingers.

At Koinonia, our Easter Sunrise Service begins in the dark. There are no trumpets or big crowds. Just a few of us in folding chairs, most years wrapped in blankets against the chill, watching for the sun to rise through the pecan trees over the grape vineyard. We see the sun, and the bell is rung. It’s loud, reverberating across the farm and through the neighborhoods. Then we all sing, sometimes a little off-key, “Christ the Lord is Risen Today.” Someone reads the Gospel from The Cotton Patch Version, of course. A few words are shared. Not many. Then there is communion, our prayer for the reconciliation of all peoples.

It’s simple. Quiet. Unassuming.

And maybe that’s what resurrection looks like most days.

Not thunder and lightning, but the slow, steady return of hope. Not a shout, but a whisper. A door cracked open. A burden lifted just enough to take the next step.

Some years, we feel every day of Holy Week. We enter into its ups and downs, always anticipating the joy of Easter. Some years, we’re just tired. But still, year after year, we gather to remember: the tomb was empty. Christ is alive. And somehow, that changes everything.

Even when we don’t feel it.

Even when the world still feels broken.

Even when death still stings.

Resurrection isn’t always loud. Sometimes it shows up in silence, in community, in bread broken and shared. Sometimes it’s just someone choosing not to give up. Someone showing up one more day.

Easter doesn’t end on Easter Sunday. Thank God. It keeps unfolding in the days that follow—in kindness, in courage, in the choice to love when it would be easier not to.

So if you missed the sunrise or didn’t quite feel the joy—take heart. Resurrection doesn’t mind showing up late. It has a habit of arriving exactly when it’s needed.