There is a particular kind of holiness reserved for those who arrive just a little too early.
You know the moment.
The meeting is scheduled for 7:00 p.m.
You arrive at 6:47, feeling commendably organized and perhaps even faintly virtuous.
The door is locked.
The lights are off.
And you stand there — coat still on, keys in hand — wondering if you have misunderstood something fundamental about time itself.
Now, there are several possible responses to this situation.
One may check the time repeatedly, as though the watch might admit to a mistake.
One may walk a small, thoughtful circle around the building.
One may attempt the door again, just in case it has reconsidered.
Or — and this is where things become interesting — one may simply wait.
Which, as it turns out, is not something we are especially skilled at.
We are, generally speaking, a people of action.
We prefer doors that open promptly.
Schedules that run efficiently.
Events that begin precisely when they are meant to.
Waiting, by contrast, feels like wasted time.
And yet…
Easter is full of waiting.
The disciples wait behind locked doors.
The travellers to Emmaus walk for hours before they recognize who is with them.
The fishermen cast their nets again and again before the dawn reveals what has been there all along.
Resurrection does not always announce itself immediately.
Sometimes it arrives quietly, gradually, almost unnoticed — until suddenly, we see.
Which means that even this small moment — standing outside a locked door, slightly ahead of schedule — is not empty.
It is a space.
A pause.
An invitation.
Now, I will admit that this is not the most obvious conclusion to reach while standing in a parking lot in the Canadian evening, wondering if one should have brought a heavier coat.
But Easter has a way of transforming even these moments.
Because the risen Christ is not only present when the doors open.
He is present while we wait.
In the stillness.
In the quiet.
In the unplanned space where nothing much seems to be happening — and yet everything is already held in grace.
And then, of course, the door opens.
Lights come on.
People arrive.
Life resumes its familiar rhythm.
But something has shifted.
Because we have been reminded — gently, quietly — that not every moment needs to be filled to be full.
Some moments are simply meant to be received.
So the next time you find yourself arriving a little too early —
standing at the threshold, waiting for things to begin —
Do not be too quick to dismiss it.
Take a breath.
Look around.
Listen.
Because Christ is risen.
And He is already present…
Even before the door opens.
Alleluia.
Companion Prayer
Risen Lord,
You meet us in the waiting
as surely as in the doing.
In the quiet moments of our day,
teach us to be still,
to be present,
and to trust that you are near.
When we are eager to move ahead,
give us patience.
When we feel uncertain,
give us peace.
And in every pause and every beginning,
remind us that your resurrection
fills all things with life.
Amen.