For those of us who like to page through dictionaries, or who love playing with words, the “re” words are interesting. We have everything from reintroduce and retaliate to reconstruction and refund.

Then we come to Resurrection. A rising from the dead. Coming to life all over again.

What a beautiful story it is: a story of hope and courage, a story of love overcoming all odds. When the disciples and His mother were cast into deepest despair, when they were preparing for a life without Him, their beloved Son and friend and leader, the man whom they knew to be the Son of God, they find He isn’t dead at all.

When they had just witnessed the most horrible execution anyone could ever envision…everything changes.

Now that the Sabbath is over, Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb to finish the burial preparations. She wants to anoint the body the way the Jewish law decrees. Mary, probably in agreement with Mary, His mother, wants to make things right.

But when she arrives at the tomb, she realizes she doesn’t have to make things right, that He has made things right himself. He is no longer in the tomb. He has raised Himself from the dead.

The wonderful thing about the Resurrection is that it is not just a historical incident. It’s not something that happened once 2000 years ago and can only be read about in Scriptures. If we’re lucky, the Resurrection happens again and again, over and over.

We’ve all had resurrections. For most of us they are not near-death experiences, but times when our faith was dead. Faith in Christ, faith in our fellow human beings, faith in ourselves was gone, wiped away by doubt, by confusion, by anxiety, or fear or loneliness.

I know because it’s happened to me dozens of times, probably because I’m so easily thrown into the abyss of despair. A single word from a boss, a bad review of something I’ve written, a problem experienced by one of our children and I’m off and running into that three ring circus where I know I’m the stupidest person on earth, the worst mother and the winner of the “Worst Wife of the Millennium” award.

So I do what I have to do, the only thing I can do. I go to my knees and ask for comfort. And it never fails.

Just at the right moment, when all seems lost, someone comes. Sometimes it’s a real live person with a message of comfort (or even of distraction).

Sometimes it’s my very own vision of an angel who reminds me of the one worthwhile thing I did, makes me laugh at myself, or who, when all else fails, offers me a plate of brownies. And I know whose hand sent that person to me; whose voice directed her to call me just when I was feeling so lousy.

So I am resurrected.

Easter Week is a good time to remember the resurrections in our own lives. The times when He has come to us, when we have felt His presence, been renewed, uplifted and strengthened by His forgiveness and His love.

It’s as easy to lose sight of the Resurrection at Easter as it is to lose sight of the Baby on Christmas morn. In mid-winter we have the shopping and the baking and the cards to think about.

In the newness of springtime we have the stylish outfit, the spiral baked ham and that certain, hard-to-find brand of chocolate-covered marshmallow bunnies the kids love.

It’s there, it’s true; we know it happened. But until we make it something that burns in our hearts, it doesn’t mean anything.

Until we take the Resurrection out of the dictionary and put it in our kitchens, in our offices, in the classroom and in our very lives, it doesn’t mean very much at all.

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