Easter Sunday

I am thinking about the Christian Resurrection today.

It is a beautiful idea that I’m not sure I’ve ever understood. I’ve always liked the life and stories of Jesus. He seems to me to be an amazing and surprising person, worthy of following, worthy of loving with all my heart. But I always stopped at the Resurrection, puzzled, and didn’t think too much about it.

So it was perfectly fine, lovely, and abstract until I actually needed to draw on that promise. Twenty years ago in June, we lost our Lucy. Suddenly the promise of the Resurrection became the most urgent matter of my life. It was not whether to believe—I’ve never had much control over that—it was whether or not to even hope. Many times I’ve taken a sort of cold comfort in telling myself, “well it doesn’t matter what I believe, what is, is, and happens to all of us—the fate of the universe doesn’t rest on my belief.” I’ve discovered through this experience that hope is a terrible thing to ask of a person. Hope feels like walking to the edge of the cliff and then deciding to take that last step off on the chance that you will fly, not fall. The higher or the larger the hope, the greater the risk if hope fails. It must be like Peter stepping over the side of the boat toward Jesus. The greater my hope, the greater my fear. A perfect hope casteth out fear, but for me fearless hope is a long ways down the road.

In a Relief Society lesson on the Resurrection and Atonement, we were asked for a response to this question: What do I personally want from Jesus and the Redemption?

I’ll tell you what I want—and it is the most frightening thing I can possibly say. I can barely say it.

I want my little girl back.