Looking Back on 64 Easters: A Boat Ride of Second Chances

Easter people—-

There’s something about coming through Good Friday into Easter that never quite gets old.

I’ve walked that road more times than I can count now.

The shadows. The silence. The questions that hang in the air like fog.

And then…

the light.

The name spoken.

The surprise of life where we thought there was only loss.

This year felt different.

Maybe because I’m aware—more than ever—that this is one of my last Easter seasons in this role. I don’t want to overdo that, or make too much of it. But it does make you look back. It does make you notice.

And what I notice most…

are the resurrection stories.

Not just the ones we read about.

The ones we’ve lived.

They come to me in flashes now.

Moments tucked into years.

A conversation after worship.

A letter that arrived at just the right time.

An email I almost didn’t open.

A text that felt like more than a text—like a quiet whisper from God.

Sometimes it wasn’t even words.

Just a look.

A handshake that lingered.

A pat on the back that said, keep going… you’re not alone.

There have been so many of those moments.

More than I can name.

And when I string them together, they tell a story.

A story of second chances.

That’s what the church has been for me.

Not perfect. Not always easy. But real.

A place where grace keeps showing up.

A place where I’ve been given more second chances than I deserve.

A place where I’ve watched others receive them too.

I’ve seen people come in carrying so much—

grief, regret, doubt, failure.

I’ve seen them out on that narrow spit of land…

that in-between place where the tide feels like it might come in too fast.

And I’ve watched, again and again,

as something shifts.

Not always all at once.

Not always in ways the world would call dramatic.

But slowly…

they find their footing.

they find their rhythm.

They find their swing.

And when that happens—

when a life begins to move again, when hope catches, when grace takes hold—

you realize you’re witnessing resurrection.

Not just once a year.

But over and over again.

It’s been quite a boat ride.

Rowing through calm waters and choppy ones.

Moments of perfect swing, when everything feels in sync.

Moments where we lose it completely and wonder if we’ll ever find it again.

And yet… somehow…

we keep rowing together.

That’s what I’ll carry with me.

Not just the sermons or the services.

But the people.

The moments.

The quiet, holy ways God kept showing up—

through you.

And maybe that’s where I find myself this Easter.

Not just looking back—

but standing in it.

In the sound of voices rising—

Christ is risen.

In the joy that fills a room before a word is even spoken.

At one point, my phone gave me a noise warning—

said we had hit 98 decibels.

Ninety-eight.

That’s not usually how I experience Easter.

It’s not usually measured that way.

But maybe…

maybe that sound wasn’t just about that moment.

Maybe it was all the quiet Easters before it—

all the whispered prayers,

all the small resurrections,

all the second chances—

rising together as one.

In the music, the laughter, the tears that somehow all belong together.

In the quiet recognition…

that life is here again.

I’ve seen it in you.

In your stories.

In your courage to begin again.

In the way we keep showing up for one another—

even when we’re not sure how the story will go.

That’s Easter.

Not just an ending.

Not just a memory.

But a morning.

A rising.

A name spoken again into the places we thought were finished.

Christ is risen.

And out here—

in the middle of our lives,

in the swing and the stumble—

we are rising too.

—Brook