Yesterday was Resurrection Sunday. It wasn’t a day for getting outside and enjoying spring. A line of storms crossed our state, bringing us a windy, rainy Easter best spent inside with a board game and a cup of tea. But no matter. It was the celebration of the thing that sits most central to our faith, and we rejoiced. He is risen! He is risen indeed!
I think I spent more time in prayer on this particular Easter than I have at any other time in my life as an adult Christian. As I watched my children press tiny wedges of marshmallow into dough for the morning’s empty tomb rolls, as we gathered round the television screen that has become one of the places from which we hear the Word preached regularly, as we signed on to the group FaceTime that has become our weekly connecting point with family, I found myself praying. Again and again, throughout mundane and magical points in my day, prayer was thread that continued, seemingly in one long breath.
So many people in need of very urgent assistance. So many situations precarious. So many unknowns swirling. So many words spoken and printed requiring discernment.
So much for which to pray.
I went to bed thankful that I have the peace of knowing that Jesus died and rose again. I have someone far greater who hears my prayers and, best of all, answers them. He has conquered sin and death; how much more can He do for us in our time of uncertainty and need?
Everything, and then some.