By Ron Hutchcraft
They say we can see some 3,000 stars. I'm looking out my window right now. I don't see even one star!
That might have something to do with the fact that it's almost noon. Give it a few hours and they'll all be there.
Because stars shine the brightest when the sky is darkest.
And for some friends of mine, the sky is pretty dark this Easter. Because someone they love isn't there anymore. There won't be a hug this Easter. Just empty arms.
The flowers my Karen planted in the front yard are just about to bloom. Along with the memories. Sunrise services together... hiding Easter eggs for the kids - and then their kids... listening to the majestic music of the season... long walks on the beach while at a friend's house.
This will be our ninth Easter without my baby... and Mom... and Ama. For Brian, his first without his 50-year love. For Cindy, Dad's gone. For Maria, the man who was a pillar to her and to all of us. The list goes on.
For others, the sky is dark because of a few minutes in a doctor's office. We grieve for so many reasons. We're broken. We're hurting. We're stuck. We're lonely.
And there's reason for despair. If we have to navigate this alone. And if this is all there is.
Graveyards are usually sad places. That Sunday morning some 2,000 years ago was a glorious exception.
Because death lost that day. And life won. Forever.
After Jesus' crucifixion, the Roman governor gave the guards at His tomb the most futile order in history: "Make the tomb as secure as you know how" (Matthew 28:63).
They did. But death is no match for the Author of life! At dawn, the stone is rolled away and Jesus is gone! As an angel is announcing, "He is not here; He has risen, just as He said."
After Friday night, the men who had left everything to follow their Messiah were left with nothing but shattered lives. And no future. The light was gone. It was very, very dark.
Until that night in the room where they were huddled, hiding from the authorities. Where they heard the voice that had once summoned them with His compelling "Follow Me."
Only this time He spoke what it seemed they would never feel again. He said...
"Peace."
And they knew it was Him. And they knew they would never be alone again. And they knew, though most would ultimately die for Him, that they would live forever.
For me, the darkness was sudden. There was no time to prepare for Karen's death. I knew how to do life with Karen. I could not conceive of how to do life without her. I was a lost little boy.
But I was not alone. My Jesus was there. "I'm here, Ron - and I'm never leaving."
And as I stood by that fresh grave, throwing in the last handful of dirt, I was not alone. My death-conquering Jesus was right there beside me.
And all I can say to someone whose sky is very dark this Easter is this: Jesus is closest when your world is the darkest. Carrying you. Comforting you. Assuring you of a future.
He is the living proof that this broken world isn't all there is. This grief isn't the end of the story. And He's still writing your story.
Jesus lights up the darkness of the moment with the light that is eternity.
I belong to the One who promises, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows Me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life" (John 8:12).
And my arms may be empty, but His are not. Because He is holding me.
