There’s a certain point in adulthood when you realize the disciples were not, in fact, spiritual Navy SEALs. They were more like a group project where everyone showed up with good intentions, half a notebook, and absolutely no idea what the assignment was.
And Jesus — bless him — was out there dropping cosmic one‑liners like “Walk in the light while you have it,” and the disciples were nodding along like they understood, even though you know at least two of them were thinking about lunch.
This is comforting to me.
Because if the people who literally followed Jesus around like a touring band still missed half the plot, then maybe the rest of us can stop pretending we’re supposed to have our lives sorted out before anything meaningful can happen.
Here’s the thing I’ve come to believe:
resurrection doesn’t happen at the tomb.
The tomb is just the part where everyone else finally notices.
The real resurrection — the one that matters — happens earlier, in the dark, in the garden, when Jesus is arguing with God like someone who has absolutely had it with the group chat. That moment where he’s sweating, bargaining, spiraling, and then suddenly… something shifts.
Not the situation.
Not the danger.
Not the outcome.
Him.
That’s the resurrection I believe in.
Not the physics trick.
The pivot.
The moment he goes from “please no” to “je suis prest.”
I am ready.
And if that’s resurrection, then it’s not a one‑time event.
It’s a pattern.
A skill.
A human capacity.
Which means I’ve resurrected myself more times than I can count — usually while still surrounded by the emotional equivalent of overturned tables, broken pottery, and at least one disciple yelling “WHAT DO WE DO NOW” in the background.
Because that’s how it works.
You don’t rise after the chaos.
You rise in it.
And only later — sometimes much later — do you look back and realize there were messages you missed in the middle of the mess. Warnings. Invitations. Tiny glimmers of light you were too overwhelmed to see at the time.
That’s not failure.
That’s humanity.
The disciples panicked.
They hid.
They doubted.
They missed the memo entirely.
And yet the story still moved forward.
So maybe resurrection isn’t about getting it right.
Maybe it’s about getting up.
Maybe it’s about the moment you decide — shaky, exhausted, unprepared — that you’re ready to walk toward whatever comes next, even if you don’t understand it yet.
Maybe resurrection is less “triumphant trumpet blast” and more “fine, okay, I’ll try again.”
And maybe that’s enough.
Because if Jesus could resurrect himself in the garden — before the clarity, before the miracle, before the disciples stopped panicking — then maybe we can resurrect ourselves, too.
Right here.
Right now.
In the middle of whatever mess we’re currently calling a life.
And if we miss a few messages along the way?
Well.
We’re in good company.
Scored by Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.
Stories That Are All True 