The Sound of Resurrection (An Easter Reflection

There is a version of Easter we like to hold onto—the bright one.

The one dressed in pastels and sunlight, where everything feels resolved, redeemed, and radiant.

But that’s not the Easter I felt.

The Easter I encountered was quieter. Heavier. Truer. Deeper.

It sounded like an old record spinning in the background—slightly warped, imperfect, carrying a melody that had known time, friction, and wear. The kind of sound you don’t just hear… you feel. It filled the room, not with noise, but with presence. With memory. With something that refused to be polished into perfection.

And as it played, I found myself leaning into something just as fragile—a tulip.

Not fully open. Not perfectly formed. Its petals curved inward in places, soft and vulnerable, as if it knew something about restraint. About becoming. About the tension between what is and what is still unfolding.

I didn’t just look at it.

I pressed close.

And in that moment, something in me broke open.

Because the truth is—Easter doesn’t begin with resurrection.

It begins with death.

With the kind of loss that empties a room.

With the kind of silence that makes you question everything you thought you knew.

With the kind of trauma that cant be forgotten easily and hurt that goes to the deepest part of the heart.

With the kind of waiting that feels cruel because nothing seems to move, nothing seems to change, and God Himself feels… absent.

We skip that part.

We rush from the cross to the empty tomb because it’s easier that way. Because sitting in the in-between—the burial, the sealed stone, the unanswered prayers—is unbearable. But that is where resurrection is born. We would not have needed a resurrection on Sunday if a death did not happen on Friday.

Not in the miracle we celebrate, but in the void we survive.

And if I’m being honest— that’s where I’ve been.

In the space where prayers feel like they hit the ceiling.

Where hope feels like something I have to choose, not something I feel.

Where I keep showing up, not because I’m strong, but because I don’t know what else to do.

That is the honest reality.

And yet… the tulip still bloomed.

Not loudly.

Not all at once.

But faithfully.

It didn’t deny the darkness it came from. It didn’t pretend the soil wasn’t heavy or the waiting wasn’t long. It simply responded to something deeper than what it could see.

Life.

That’s what struck me.

Resurrection isn’t just a moment where everything is suddenly fixed. It’s a force. A quiet, relentless force that keeps moving beneath the surface long before anything changes on the outside.

It’s what happens when you keep your heart open even when it hurts.

When you keep believing even when belief feels thin.

When you allow yourself to feel fully broken without closing yourself off completely.

The old record kept spinning—crackling, imperfect, alive.

And I realized something I hadn’t before:

Resurrection doesn’t erase the sound of suffering.

It weaves through it.

It doesn’t silence the cracks—

it sings through them.

So maybe the goal was never to become untouched.

Maybe it was never about arriving at some polished version of faith where everything makes sense and nothing aches.

Maybe the invitation of Easter is far more raw than that.

To stay.

To remain open.

To let yourself be held in the tension of what hasn’t been redeemed yet—and trust that it still will be.

Because the stone wasn’t rolled away so that Jesus could get out.

It was rolled away so we could see in.

So we could look into the place that once held death…

and witness that it doesn’t anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, that same truth is unfolding in us.

In the unseen places.

In the buried parts.

In the prayers that feel unanswered but are not unheard.

The tulip doesn’t strive to prove it’s alive.

It simply is.

And the record doesn’t try to hide its imperfections.

It lets them be part of the music.

So here I am—

somewhere between Good Friday and Sunday morning,

between what I’ve lost and what I’m still believing for,

between silence and song.

And for the first time, I’m beginning to understand…

Resurrection isn’t always a moment you arrive at.

Sometimes, it’s a reality you choose to trust

while everything still feels unfinished.

And maybe this is the part we don’t talk about enough—

That resurrection will ask something of you.

It will ask you to believe before you see.

To stay when it would be easier to walk away.

To keep your heart soft in a world that rewards numbness.

It will ask you to sit in the silence of Saturday

and not rush God into Sunday.

Because if you rush it—

you might miss the miracle happening underneath.

The roots growing in the dark.

The life forming in hidden places.

The quiet, sacred work that doesn’t need your understanding to still be unfolding.

So if you find yourself there—

in the waiting, in the wondering, in the ache that hasn’t lifted—

You’re not behind.

You’re not forgotten.

You’re not without hope.

You’re standing in the very place

where resurrection begins.

So I stay here a little longer—

leaning in close,

eyes closed,

heart still open—

Listening…

for life

in the middle of it all.