My Anywhere But Here Blog

🌿 The Quiet Meaning of Easter

I was thinking about Easter…

and I think I remember it differently than I do now.

When I was younger, it felt bigger somehow.

Brighter.

Louder in the happiest way.

There were baskets and colors,

and mornings that felt like something special was waiting.

And in a way…

it always was.

But somewhere along the way,

something shifted.

Not in Easter itself—

but in me.

Because now, when I think about it,

it doesn’t feel loud in the same way.

It feels… quieter.

Not quiet like something is missing,

but quiet like something has settled deeper.

Like the kind of quiet

that doesn’t need to announce itself

to be known.

I didn’t understand Easter when I was younger.

Not really.

I just felt the joy of it.

The excitement.

The lightness of a day that felt different from the rest.

And maybe that was enough then.

But now…

I feel something else.

I feel a sense of anticipation

and a confidence that God holds all my fears.

Much like, I am sure,

his disciples must have felt fear after the crucifixion.

I know my life has changed so drastically now

that my cancer has returned.

When I got that news,

I literally thought to myself—

much like Mary who went to the garden the day after the crucifixion—

What on earth do I do next

if they say there is nothing further that can be done?

I exhaled in my car and said,

“Okay… just pause.

Don’t say a word for the rest of the day.”

So I didn’t.

I just took deep breaths.

I felt the stillness before the morning.

The waiting that came before understanding.

The space where fear lingered,

before anything had been lifted.

There is a song I love by the Christian artist Andrew Peterson,

*you may want to look up the full lyrics these are partial lyrics.

“The Reckoning.”

How long until this curtain is lifted?

How long is this the song that we sing?

How long until the reckoning?

I believe You will come,

Your justice be done—

but how long?

I am standing in the stillness of the reckoning…

I sat in my apartment that night, saying,

I am ready for the reckoning.

The weight of a moment

where no one yet knew.

Where I did not even know

what I was asking for.

I had no idea

how the story would unfold

in what felt like my final days.

And the emotions

were overwhelming.

I searched all night for answers—

much like I imagine Mary must have done.

The morning before the reckoning.

Before the Sun—

the Son—had risen,

we shouldn’t overlook

what came before.

Because I am sure

it gave them an unseen strength

to rise that morning

and face the day.

In that quiet space of uncertainty,

that quiet part

feels just as important

as the unmistakable joy

that followed.

The moment where fear

was believed to be over.

As He told them,

life as they knew it

had changed.

And maybe that’s what changed.

Not the meaning of Easter—

but the way I see it now.

Maybe Easter didn’t lose its wonder…

maybe it just grew into something quieter.

The celebration is still there.

The joy still rises.

But now it feels steadier.

Deeper.

Less about what is seen…

and more about what is understood.

And maybe the child in me

wasn’t wrong—

just experiencing it

in a different way.

When you are nearing the end of life,

your perspective changes.

You begin to crave quiet.

You begin to crave stillness.

Because not all joy is loud.

Not all meaning needs to be explained.

Some things—

like the space between life and death—

and some things,

like Easter—

are meant to be felt

in the calm

and in the quiet.

______________________________________

Susan Thomas

In My Anywhere But Here,

I am learning that even in life’s most uncertain moments,

there is a quiet place to rest—

where fear softens,

faith steadies,

and something deeper begins to unfold.