Easter Reflection: The Hope of Resurrection

We went into the Advent season last year filled with fragile hope. McKenna was in the hospital after her water broke early. Our lives slowed down. Everything was on pause. Waiting took on a new gravity.

In that space, I wrote about how Advent isn’t always easy. It’s sometimes the season of waiting for news you don’t want to hear, of hoping while bracing for heartbreak. I wrote about how Advent is for people like us—people whose hands are trembling, who don’t know how their story ends, who are waiting in the dark for the light to break in.

I didn’t know then how much darker it would get. On January 7th, our daughter Mary Claire was born. She passed away in our arms later that same day, after seven hours of life.

In that short time, we had the chance to be with her, to care for her, and to say goodbye. Those hours, though brief, marked a significant chapter in our lives—one defined by both loss and love.

And now, Easter is here. And it feels different than it ever has before.

I used to think of Holy Week as a kind of emotional crescendo—darkness building to light, sorrow giving way to joy. But this year, it’s not a tidy arc. It’s a long, winding road that passes straight through the valley of the shadow of death—and lingers there. Because sometimes, resurrection doesn’t come in three days. Sometimes it takes a lifetime.

Our Advent didn’t end in December. Or January. It didn’t end when Mary Claire was born, and it certainly didn’t end when we had to say goodbye at her snowy graveside. No—our Advent stretches on now, not for four weeks, but for the rest of our lives. We are still waiting. Waiting not just to heal, but for the new heavens and the new earth. Waiting for the day we’ll see our daughter again—not in a hospital room but in the presence of Jesus, whole and alive and radiant in resurrection light.

Until then, we are living in the tension between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

Good Friday is not just a day on the calendar anymore. It’s a reality that has taken up residence in our lives. Jesus’ cry from the cross—“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”—hits differently when you’ve held your child’s lifeless body in your arms. It feels less like metaphor and more like the truest thing you can say.

There’s something sacred in that kind of lament. The Bible doesn’t flinch away from it. And neither does our God.

But Easter—Easter is still true. Even when it’s hard to believe. Even when we have to whisper it through tears. Even when it feels far away.

The tomb is empty. Christ has conquered death. And that means, somehow, death will not have the final word over Mary Claire either. We will see her again. Whole. Restored. Laughing. Dancing in a Kingdom where sorrow and sadness will flee.

Right now, that hope feels more like a lifeline than a celebration. But it’s hope, nonetheless. And it’s enough to keep us going. So we wait. Not passively. Not hopelessly. But faithfully.

We carry Mary Claire with us in everything now. In the silence. In the liturgy. In the ache of missing her and the longing for resurrection. Our story has been marked by loss, yes—but also by deep love. Love that waits. Love that believes. Love that endures.

Our Advent is not over. But one day, it will be. One day the waiting will end. One day our arms won’t be empty anymore. One day Mary Claire will run to us, and we’ll fall to our knees not just because we missed her, but because we’ll be face to face with the One who holds all our sorrows and redeems them all.

Until then, we live with this sacred ache.

Until then, we mourn with hope.

Until then, we wait and hope for the resurrection.

Spencer Folmar

Hard Faith

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