By Thursday, something quite remarkable has happened.

We are no longer surprised that the week is underway.

We have accepted it.

We have made our peace with the calendar.
We have adjusted our expectations.
We have even, in a moment of bold optimism, begun to think, “Yes… I may actually make it through this week.”

This is the quiet confidence of Thursday.

It is not dramatic.

It is not triumphant.

But it is steady.

And it is precisely here — in this steady, almost unnoticed part of the week — that Easter begins to do some of its finest work.

Because resurrection, it turns out, has a particular fondness for small things.

Not the grand gestures (though it is capable of those).
Not the dramatic moments (though it has been known to employ them).

But the small things.

The unnoticed kindness.
The quiet patience.
The moment when you choose gentleness instead of irritation — even though irritation was fully justified and quite prepared to make an appearance.

Easter lives there.

Now, this may not sound particularly exciting.

After all, when we speak of resurrection, we tend to imagine something rather more… impressive.

Light bursting forth.
Angels making announcements.
Stones being rolled away with commendable decisiveness.

But most of the time…

…resurrection looks like this:

A conversation that goes better than expected.
A task completed with a little more grace than usual.
A moment of stillness in the middle of a busy day.

Small things.

Which is excellent news.

Because small things are what most of our days are made of.

And here is where the joy quietly overflows.

Because if Christ is risen…

…then nothing is too small to matter.

Not the email you send.
Not the person you greet.
Not even the decision to pause, take a breath, and begin again.

All of it becomes part of something larger.

Something alive.

Something shaped by grace.

Now, to be clear, this does not mean that Thursday becomes effortless.

There may still be moments of impatience.
There may still be the occasional sense that time is moving at a pace that can only be described as “thoughtful.”

But even there — yes, even there — resurrection is at work.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

But faithfully.

And so today, as you move through the small moments of your day…

pay attention.

Because the risen Christ is already there.

In the quiet kindness.
In the steady work.
In the unnoticed grace that carries you forward.

And you may find — quite unexpectedly — that what seemed like an ordinary Thursday…

…has become something holy.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us
in the small and quiet moments of our days.

Open our eyes
to see your presence
in what is ordinary,
in what is unnoticed,
and in what feels small.

Give us grace
to act with kindness,
to speak with gentleness,
and to live with quiet joy.

And remind us
that nothing done in love
is ever insignificant.

Alleluia. Amen.

By Tuesday, the week is no longer theoretical.

It has begun.

The plans we made on Monday have now encountered reality. The tidy list has developed… annotations. The carefully estimated timelines have revealed themselves to be, shall we say, aspirational.

And somewhere in the midst of all this, we find ourselves doing what human beings have done for generations:

Adjusting.

Rescheduling.
Reconsidering.
Quietly wondering if perhaps we were a touch optimistic.

And into this very familiar rhythm…

Easter steps in again.

Christ is risen.

Which is, if we are being honest, not particularly sensitive to our schedules.

Because the resurrection of Jesus has a habit of interrupting things.

Not rudely.

Not dramatically (at least, not after the first day).

But persistently.

You see it in the Gospels.

Two disciples are walking along, deep in conversation, processing the events of the past few days — a perfectly reasonable activity — when Jesus joins them.

They do not recognize him at first, which is both comforting and slightly concerning.

And then, slowly, the conversation changes.

Their understanding shifts.
Their hearts begin to burn within them.
And what had been an ordinary walk becomes something else entirely.

An encounter.

This is what Easter does.

It meets us in the middle of what we are already doing…

…and gently, firmly, changes it.

Now, this can be slightly inconvenient.

Because we like to be in control of our schedules.

We prefer to decide when something meaningful will happen. We enjoy allocating appropriate time slots for reflection, insight, and spiritual growth.

Easter, however, does not consult the calendar.

It shows up in the middle of things.

In the middle of a conversation.
In the middle of a task.
In the middle of a day that was proceeding quite nicely without any major theological developments.

And suddenly…

…there it is.

A moment of clarity.
A shift in perspective.
A quiet sense that something more is happening than we had realized.

This is resurrection at work.

Not overwhelming.

But unmistakable.

And here is where the joy comes in.

Because once you begin to expect these interruptions…

…you begin to welcome them.

You begin to move through the day with a certain openness.

A readiness to be surprised.
A willingness to pause.
A quiet curiosity about where God might show up next.

Even — and this is important — when you are in the middle of something else.

So today, if your schedule changes…

If something unexpected arises…

If the day unfolds differently than you had planned…

take a moment.

Pause.

And consider the possibility that this is not merely disruption.

It may be invitation.

Because the risen Christ is still walking with us.

Still joining us on the road.

Still turning ordinary moments into encounters with grace.

And if that is true…

…then even a Tuesday can become something extraordinary.

Not because everything went according to plan.

But because something better happened instead.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us
in the middle of our days
and the midst of our plans.

Give us the grace
to welcome your interruptions,
to notice your presence,
and to respond with open hearts.

Turn our ordinary moments
into encounters with your love.

And teach us to trust
that wherever you meet us,
we are exactly where we need to be.

Alleluia. Amen.

There is a particular feeling that arrives on a Monday morning.

It is not despair — that would be too dramatic.
It is not even reluctance — though that occasionally makes a guest appearance.

It is more of a thoughtful pause.

A moment when you look at the week ahead and think, “Well then… here we are again.”

The calendar is full.
The tasks are lined up with quiet determination.
The week, it seems, has every intention of proceeding.

And into this entirely ordinary Monday…

Easter cheerfully arrives again.

Christ is risen.

Which is, when you think about it, a rather bold thing to bring into a Monday.

Because Monday tends to operate on a different emotional frequency.

Monday prefers practicality.
Efficiency.
A certain measured approach to life.

Easter, on the other hand, arrives like a guest who brings far more joy than the occasion strictly requires.

It shows up with light.
With hope.
With a slightly unreasonable amount of confidence that things are, in fact, going to be all right.

And then — quite astonishingly — it refuses to leave.

This is where the Christian life becomes wonderfully interesting.

Because we are not asked to choose between resurrection and reality.

We are invited to bring resurrection into reality.

Into the week ahead.

Into the meetings, the conversations, the tasks that await our attention.

Now, this does not mean that Monday becomes effortless.

Let us remain grounded.

There will still be moments of busyness.
Moments of uncertainty.
Possibly even a moment where you stare at something and think, “I was entirely confident I understood this yesterday.”

But beneath all of that…

…something deeper is true.

The tomb is empty.

And if the tomb is empty…

…then nothing in this week is beyond hope.

Not the difficult conversation.
Not the complicated task.
Not even the thing you have been quietly avoiding since Thursday.

Easter does not remove the week.

It transforms it.

Because it reminds us that we are not moving through these days alone.

The risen Christ goes ahead of us.

Into the week.

Into the work.

Into the ordinary, holy, slightly unpredictable rhythm of daily life.

And — if we are paying attention — he brings something with him.

Joy.

Not loud, perhaps.

Not overwhelming.

But steady.

Persistent.

The kind of joy that can sit comfortably beside responsibility and say, “Yes, this is real… and so is resurrection.”

Which means that this Monday is not just the beginning of another week.

It is the continuation of a resurrection story.

One in which you have a part to play.

So go ahead.

Open the calendar.
Take a breath.
Step into the day.

But do so with a certain quiet confidence.

Because Easter has already arrived.

And it has brought everything you need.

Including — and this is no small thing — the grace to begin again.

Alleluia.

---

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You go before us
into every day.

Be present in the week ahead —
in our work,
our conversations,
and our quiet moments.

Give us courage for what is difficult,
patience for what is slow,
and joy that quietly endures.

And remind us,
as we begin again,
that we do so
in the light of your resurrection.

Alleluia. Amen.

There is a moment every Sunday that deserves far more theological attention than it usually receives.

It is not the sermon — though I remain very fond of those.
It is not the hymns — though they do their very best.
It is not even the final blessing — noble and dignified as that moment may be.

It is…

…the parking lot.

Now, if you have ever observed a congregation after the dismissal, you will know that the parking lot is where real life resumes with impressive speed.

People greet one another warmly.
Announcements are clarified.
Plans are made.
Someone remembers something they meant to say.
Someone else remembers something they meant to bring.

And somewhere in the midst of all this, keys are located, conversations linger, and at least one person wonders whether they have locked the car.

It is a deeply human moment.

And it is precisely where Easter joy begins to do some of its most important work.

Because the question of Easter is not only, “Did Christ rise?”

The Church has already answered that — loudly, repeatedly, and with considerable musical enthusiasm.

The real question is this:

What difference does it make once we leave the building?

And the answer, it turns out, is:

Everything.

Easter does not remain neatly contained within the sanctuary.

It follows us out.

Into conversations in the parking lot.
Into errands on the way home.
Into the ordinary rhythm of the week that is already quietly waiting to begin.

The risen Christ, after all, is not confined to holy spaces.

He meets his disciples on roads.
In kitchens.
At tables.
In the middle of ordinary, slightly unstructured, entirely human life.

Which means that if you find yourself this Sunday standing in the parking lot — chatting, laughing, making plans, or simply pausing for a moment —

you are already standing in a place where resurrection is at work.

Now, this is very good news.

Because it means that the grace we encounter in worship is not something we leave behind.

It is something we carry.

Into the week.

Into our homes.
Into our work.
Into the countless small interactions that make up our days.

And here is where the joy begins to overflow.

Because once you begin to notice this…

…the whole world starts to feel a little more alive.

The ordinary becomes meaningful.
The routine becomes sacred.
The small moments become places where God is quietly present.

Even — and perhaps especially — in the parking lot.

Now, to be clear, this does not mean that every moment will be perfectly serene.

There may still be the occasional moment of confusion. The occasional logistical challenge. The occasional realization that someone has parked in a way that requires… creative interpretation.

But even there — yes, even there — Easter remains true.

The tomb is empty.

Christ is risen.

And that truth follows us wherever we go.

So as you leave the sanctuary today — as you step into the bright, ordinary world —

take a moment.

Look around.

Smile.

Because resurrection has not stayed behind.

It is already walking with you.

Right into the middle of your life.

And that…

…is where it intends to stay.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us
not only in worship
but in the life that follows.

Walk with us
beyond the sanctuary doors,
into our conversations,
our routines,
and our ordinary days.

Help us to carry your joy
into every place we go.

And remind us
that wherever we are,
you are already there —
alive, present, and full of grace.

Alleluia. Amen.

By Saturday, Easter has reached a most advanced and slightly dangerous stage.

It has begun to affect our sense of humour.

Now, this may not sound particularly theological at first.

But stay with me.

Because one of the most delightful — and frequently overlooked — consequences of the resurrection is this:

It gives us permission to laugh.

Not cynically.
Not dismissively.
But joyfully.

Because when death has been defeated…

…everything else becomes just a little less intimidating.

You may have noticed this already.

Things that would normally frustrate you now seem slightly less urgent. Situations that once demanded solemn seriousness now invite a gentler response.

And, most curiously of all, you may find yourself laughing at things that would previously have caused you to sigh heavily and reach for additional coffee.

This is not carelessness.

This is Easter.

Because the resurrection quietly rearranges our perspective.

The disciples, after all, did not become instantly composed, perfectly organized individuals following Easter morning.

They remained gloriously human.

They misunderstood things.
They asked questions.
They returned, at one point, to fishing — which suggests that even after encountering the risen Christ, they were still capable of saying, “Well… what shall we do now?”

And into all of that humanity, Jesus steps.

Not with exasperation.

But with grace.

Which is very good news.

Because it means that our own slightly imperfect, occasionally muddled, frequently amusing attempts at faithful living are not obstacles to Easter joy.

They are part of it.

Now, if we are being honest, parish life provides no shortage of opportunities for this kind of grace-filled humour.

There are moments when things go beautifully.

And there are moments when things go… memorably.

The hymn that begins in one key and courageously explores several others.
The announcement that becomes a small speech.
The carefully planned event that takes an unexpected turn and somehow becomes better for it.

And somewhere in all of this, Easter is present.

Not in spite of the imperfections.

But within them.

Because resurrection joy is not about achieving perfection.

It is about living in the freedom of knowing that perfection is not required.

Christ is risen.

And therefore, we are free.

Free to try.
Free to fail.
Free to laugh.
Free to begin again.

And this freedom is deeply joyful.

It lightens the spirit. It softens the edges of our expectations. It allows us to hold our lives — and ourselves — a little more gently.

So today, if something goes slightly awry…

…if plans wobble, words tangle, or circumstances take a mildly unexpected turn…

take a moment.

Smile.

And perhaps even laugh.

Because the tomb is empty.

And if the tomb is empty…

…then even our small missteps are held within a much larger grace.

Which, when you think about it, is rather wonderful.

So go ahead.

Live lightly today.
Laugh freely.
Trust deeply.

Because Easter joy is not only for the grand moments.

It is for this moment.

And this one.

And even the slightly awkward one that is probably just around the corner.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us
in our humanity
with patience and grace.

Teach us to live lightly,
to laugh freely,
and to trust deeply in your love.

When we stumble,
remind us that we are held.
When we falter,
remind us that we are forgiven.

And fill our lives
with the joyful freedom
of your resurrection.

Alleluia. Amen.

By Friday, something quite extraordinary has happened.

Easter has not only survived the week…

…it has started setting the table.

Now, Fridays are not usually known for their festive qualities.

They tend to arrive with a certain seriousness. There are tasks to complete, loose ends to gather, and at least one moment in the day when you look at the clock and think, “Surely it must be later than this.”

And yet.

Christ is risen.

Which means that even Friday has been quietly transformed.

Because in the resurrection appearances, something curious keeps happening.

Jesus eats.

Not once. Not as a symbolic gesture. But repeatedly.

Fish by the lakeshore.
Bread in a house.
Meals shared with friends who are still trying to understand what on earth is going on.

Which tells us something deeply important about Easter:

Resurrection is not abstract.

It is lived.

It is shared.

It shows up at the table.

Now this is very good news for a Friday.

Because Fridays often feel like the day when we are simply trying to get through.

Get through the tasks.
Get through the meetings.
Get through that last conversation that has been waiting patiently since Wednesday.

But Easter gently reframes the day.

What if today is not something to get through…

…but something to receive?

What if even the ordinary moments — a cup of coffee, a shared meal, a brief conversation — are already part of something larger?

Because when Christ is risen, even the simplest things begin to carry a kind of quiet radiance.

The table becomes a place of grace.
The meal becomes an act of gratitude.
The conversation becomes a moment of connection.

Now, this does not require anything elaborate.

Let us not panic and attempt a five-course liturgical lunch.

It may be as simple as pausing long enough to notice.

To notice the gift of the moment.
To notice the presence of others.
To notice that even here — yes, even on a Friday — life is being offered.

This is resurrection at its most delightful.

Not overwhelming.

But generous.

Quietly turning the ordinary into something like a feast.

And here is where the joy begins to overflow.

Because once you begin to live this way…

…everything starts to feel a little more abundant.

Not because there is suddenly more of everything.

But because what is already there is seen differently.

As gift.

As grace.

As part of a world where the tomb is empty.

So today, take a moment.

Sit down.

Breathe.

Receive the day.

And perhaps — if you are feeling particularly adventurous — share something of it with someone else.

A conversation.
A kindness.
A moment of laughter.

Because Easter joy is meant to be shared.

And once it is…

…it multiplies.

Which, as it turns out, is exactly how feasts work.

Even on a Friday.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us
in the simple gifts of daily life.

Open our eyes
to the abundance around us.

Teach us to receive each moment
with gratitude,
to share what we have with joy,
and to recognize your presence
at every table.

And let our lives become
a quiet feast of grace
in a world made new by you.

Alleluia. Amen.

By Thursday, Easter has begun to display one of its most remarkable qualities.

It refuses to be limited by our plans.

Now, this is slightly inconvenient.

Because we are, by nature, planners.

We make schedules.
We prepare agendas.
We create tidy expectations about how the day is supposed to unfold.

And then the day unfolds… differently.

A meeting runs longer than expected.
A conversation takes an unexpected turn.
Something breaks, disappears, or refuses to cooperate with even the most earnest prayer.

And we find ourselves saying, with great theological depth:

“Well… this was not the plan.”

Enter Easter.

Because the resurrection of Jesus is, at its heart, the greatest “not the plan” moment in history.

No one — absolutely no one — arrived at the tomb on Easter morning expecting a triumph.

They came prepared for finality.

And instead, they encountered new life.

Which suggests something rather important for a Thursday:

God is not confined to our expectations.

In fact, God seems particularly fond of working through the unexpected.

The risen Christ appears in places no one anticipated.

On roads no one planned to walk.
In rooms where people had gathered for entirely different reasons.
At times when hope had already been politely set aside.

And each time, the same pattern emerges:

What seemed like disruption becomes revelation.

What looked like inconvenience becomes grace.

What felt like “not the plan” becomes, somehow, exactly where God is at work.

Now, this does not mean we should abandon planning altogether.

Let us not alarm the parish office.

Plans are good. Schedules are helpful. Agendas can be, at times, a sign of civilization.

But Easter invites us to hold them lightly.

Because resurrection has a way of slipping into the spaces we did not organize.

You may notice this today.

A delay that becomes an opportunity.
A change that leads to something unexpectedly good.
A moment that felt frustrating, but somehow opens into grace.

This is resurrection at work.

Quietly transforming interruptions into invitations.

And here is where the joy becomes unmistakable.

Because once you begin to trust that God is present even in the unplanned…

…life becomes lighter.

Not simpler.

But freer.

You begin to move through the day with a kind of gentle openness.

A willingness to be surprised.

A readiness to discover that God is already present in the very thing you were hoping to avoid.

Which is, admittedly, a slightly advanced spiritual skill.

But Easter is nothing if not ambitious.

So today, when things do not go according to plan — and they almost certainly will not — take a moment.

Pause.

Smile.

And remember:

The tomb was not part of the plan either.

And yet…

…here we are.

Living in a world where life has already won.

Which means that even the unexpected…

…can be filled with joy.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us
not only in what we expect
but in what surprises us.

Give us the grace
to trust your presence
in the unplanned moments of our day.

Turn our interruptions into invitations,
our frustrations into opportunities,
and our uncertainty into hope.

And teach us to live
with open hearts,
ready to discover your joy
in all things.

Alleluia. Amen.

By Wednesday, Easter has reached a particularly advanced stage.

It has begun to interfere… with our irritations.

Now, this is where things become spiritually serious.

It is one thing for resurrection to inspire joy on a Sunday. It is quite another for it to insert itself into those small, entirely ordinary moments that test the limits of our sanctification.

You know the ones.

The email that could have been clearer.
The meeting that could have been shorter.
The conversation that begins with, “Just one quick thing…” and proceeds to unfold with liturgical length.

These are the moments in which we are most tempted to set aside our Easter Alleluias and return, briefly, to a more… pre-resurrection frame of mind.

And yet.

Christ is risen.

Which means — inconveniently — that even these moments now belong to Easter.

The risen Christ, you may recall, did not limit his appearances to carefully curated spiritual settings.

He appeared to disciples who were confused.
To followers who were tired.
To people who were still trying to figure out what had just happened.

In other words, to people who were not having a perfectly serene week.

And into that very human reality, he speaks:

“Peace be with you.”

Which, if we are honest, is not always our first instinct.

Our first instinct is often something more along the lines of:

“Well, this could have gone better.”

But Easter gently interrupts that instinct.

Because resurrection is not only about victory over death.

It is also about transformation in life.

It is about the slow, steady reshaping of how we respond — especially in those small, seemingly insignificant moments.

You may notice this today.

A pause before responding sharply.
A moment of grace where irritation had been preparing its speech.
A willingness to laugh — even at yourself.

This is resurrection at work.

Not dramatic.

But deeply powerful.

Because it is precisely in these small moments that the life of Christ begins to take root in us.

And here is where the joy comes in.

Because once you begin to see this…

…it becomes almost impossible not to smile.

Not because everything is perfect.

But because even your imperfections are now caught up in something larger.

Something patient.

Something forgiving.

Something alive.

Easter joy, you see, is not delicate.

It is resilient.

It can survive a long meeting.
It can endure a confusing email.
It can even persist through a conversation that could have been an email.

Which, if that is not a miracle, I am not entirely sure what is.

So today, when the small irritations of life begin to gather — as they so faithfully do — remember this:

The tomb is empty.

And if the tomb is empty…

…then even this moment can be filled with grace.

So take a breath.

Smile gently.

And allow resurrection to do its quiet work.

Because Easter is not only for the grand moments.

It is for this moment.

Right here.

Alleluia.

---

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us
in the small moments
as well as the great ones.

When we are tempted toward irritation,
give us patience.
When we are weary,
give us joy.

Let your resurrection
shape our responses,
soften our hearts,
and fill our lives with grace.

And in all things,
teach us to live
as people of the empty tomb.

Alleluia. Amen.

By Tuesday, Easter has done something quite remarkable.

It has slipped out of the sanctuary…
and wandered into the conversations.

Now, this is not always immediately noticeable.

At first glance, Tuesday looks perfectly ordinary. There are meetings. There are errands. There is that one conversation you meant to have yesterday but postponed in the hope that it might resolve itself by divine intervention.

(It rarely does.)

And yet.

Christ is risen.

Which means that even the most ordinary conversation is now taking place in a world where resurrection has already happened.

This is where things begin to get interesting.

Because we tend to think of Easter as something grand — something that belongs in hymns, in liturgies, in beautifully arranged flowers that behave impeccably for at least forty-eight hours.

But the risen Christ has a habit of appearing in far less formal settings.

On a road to Emmaus — mid-conversation.
On a shoreline — over breakfast.
In a room — in the middle of uncertainty.

In other words, right where people are talking.

Which suggests that Tuesday might be one of the most important days of an Easter Week.

Because Tuesday is full of conversations.

Some brief and cheerful.
Some necessary and slightly awkward.
Some that begin with, “Do you have a minute?” — which, as we all know, is a phrase that has never once meant a minute.

And into all of these, resurrection quietly steps.

Not with a trumpet.

But with presence.

And when resurrection enters a conversation, things begin to shift.

Listening becomes deeper.
Patience becomes possible.
Grace becomes… unexpectedly available.

You may notice yourself responding differently.

More kindly than you had planned.
More generously than seems strictly efficient.
With a lightness that feels, frankly, a little suspicious.

This is not because you have suddenly become a perfectly sanctified human being overnight.

Let us not get carried away.

It is because Easter is at work.

Because when Christ is risen, every interaction carries the possibility of life.

Even the small ones.

Even the ones that feel routine.

Even the ones that begin slightly awkwardly and end, somehow, with a sense that something good has happened.

This is resurrection in its most delightful form.

Not dramatic.

But transformative.

Quietly turning ordinary moments into places where grace takes root.

So today, pay attention to your conversations.

The quick ones.
The unexpected ones.
The ones you might otherwise rush through.

Because Easter has a way of showing up precisely there.

And when it does, it leaves behind something unmistakable:

A little more light.
A little more hope.
A little more joy than the situation strictly required.

Which is, after all, how you know it is from God.

So go ahead.

Speak kindly.
Listen deeply.
Laugh easily.

Because the risen Christ is already in the room…

…and Tuesday will never quite be the same.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us
in the words we share
and the conversations we carry.

Be present in our speaking
and in our listening.

Fill our words with kindness,
our hearts with patience,
and our lives with the quiet grace
of your resurrection.

And let every conversation today
be touched
by your living presence.

Alleluia. Amen.

By Monday morning, Easter has encountered its first real test.

Not heresy.
Not persecution.
Not even theological confusion.

No — something far more formidable.

The parish to-do list.

Because however glorious Easter Sunday may be — however radiant the lilies, however triumphant the hymns, however heroic the choir — Monday arrives with a clipboard.

Emails have appeared overnight with remarkable enthusiasm. Bulletins must be prepared. Someone has a question about the flower rota. Someone else has a question about a question.

And somewhere in the midst of all this, a quiet voice says:

“Christ is risen.”

To which the Monday morning mind replies:

“Yes, absolutely… but also, where did I put that file?”

This, you see, is where Easter becomes truly interesting.

Because it is one thing to proclaim resurrection in a church filled with light and music.

It is quite another to carry resurrection into a day that includes paperwork.

And yet — this is precisely where Easter insists on going.

Right into the middle of ordinary life.

The risen Christ does not remain politely in the garden.

He shows up in kitchens.
He appears on roads.
He stands among disciples who are trying to figure out what comes next.

And, one suspects, he would not be entirely surprised to find himself present in a parish office with a slightly overfull inbox.

“Peace be with you,” he says.

Which is a remarkable thing to hear when your schedule is looking mildly ambitious.

Because Easter peace is not the absence of activity.

It is the presence of Christ in the middle of it.

And once you begin to notice that…

…even the most ordinary tasks begin to change.

Answering an email becomes an act of kindness.
Preparing a bulletin becomes a quiet offering.
A conversation becomes an opportunity for grace.

Now, this does not mean that Monday suddenly becomes effortless.

Let us remain realistic.

The emails will still be there. The coffee will still be necessary. The printer will still behave in ways that require prayer.

But beneath all of it, something has shifted.

Because the tomb is empty.

And if the tomb is empty…

…then even the parish to-do list is taking place in a resurrected world.

Which means that nothing you do today is entirely ordinary.

It is all caught up in something larger.

Something alive.

Something joyful.

Something that quietly transforms even the smallest moments.

So go ahead.

Open the emails.
Make the coffee.
Attend to the tasks before you.

But do it with a certain lightness.

Because Easter has already happened.

And it is not going anywhere.

Which means that even Monday…

— even this Monday…

…is filled with resurrection.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Risen Lord,
You meet us
not only in celebration
but in the work of ordinary days.

Be present in our tasks,
our conversations,
and even in our busyness.

Give us patience in small things,
grace in every interaction,
and joy that quietly endures.

And remind us, again and again,
that all we do
is held within your risen life.

Alleluia. Amen.