“Easter Monday at the Water’s Edge” Matthew 28:9–15

Originally published: April 21, 2025

This morning, I sat beside the sea.
Not to seek answers,
but to listen.

The tide spoke in hushed syllables,
gentle as breath,
and the boats came and went like prayers
some arriving, some departing,
each held by something unseen.

It is Easter Monday.
And though yesterday rang with Alleluias,
today feels quieter—like the soft hum after a hymn,
the stillness of the sanctuary
when the last candle flickers.

The Gospel tells us
the Risen Christ met the women on the road.
He could have waited at the tomb,
could have called to crowds,
but instead He chose the path where hearts still ached
and steps were uncertain.

His words were not grand,
but grace-filled:
“Do not be afraid. Go and tell.”

Not a command,
but a comfort.
Not a sermon,
but a sending.

There is beauty in that.
Just as there is beauty in this moment
the light playing on the water,
the quiet dignity of the boats,
the hush between sea and sky
where eternity feels near.

And I find myself thinking about life and death,
about Pope Francis,
whose ministry was a canvas of humility and hope
broad strokes of compassion,
delicate lines of justice,
always painting the Church closer to Christ.

In the mystery of this morning,
I wonder if resurrection isn’t always dramatic
but often found here,
in the slow rhythm of waves,
in the return of light,
in the knowing that love meets us on the road.

Not to erase sorrow,
but to walk with us through it.

So I sit.
And I breathe.
And I give thanks for a God
who still meets us where we are
by the sea, in the silence,
between the boats and the breeze.

Alleluia, still.