Easter may seem boring to children, and it is blessedly

Host: The churchyard was quiet beneath the soft light of dawn. Mist drifted low across the grass, moving like forgotten prayers. The bells had not yet rung, but their silence held an expectancy deeper than sound. The air was sharp, clean, laced with the faint sweetness of spring blossoms.

Host: Jack stood beside the old stone wall, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. His breath came out in small clouds, visible in the chill air. Jeeny approached slowly, carrying two cups of coffee, her steps careful over the damp earth.

Host: Behind them, the church doors were open, the faint glow of candles flickering inside. It was Easter morning. The world was between darkness and day.

Jeeny: “Frederica Mathewes-Green once said, ‘Easter may seem boring to children, and it is blessedly unencumbered by the silly fun that plagues Christmas. Yet it contains the one thing needful for every human life: the good news of Resurrection.’”

Jack: (takes the cup) “Resurrection, huh? Sounds good in theory. But in practice… people don’t rise, Jeeny. They just get older.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Resurrection isn’t about avoiding death. It’s about what comes after.”

Jack: “After what? After you lose the people you love? After the world shows you what it really is?”

Jeeny: “After despair, Jack. That’s where it begins.”

Host: The sun edged higher, a shy hint of gold behind the clouds. The light brushed the tops of the gravestones, touching names half-erased by time.

Jack: “You always talk like faith is some kind of therapy. Like it can make the world hurt less.”

Jeeny: “No. I think it makes the hurt holy.”

Host: He looked at her sharply, his grey eyes hard, but something flickered beneath — curiosity, maybe even longing.

Jack: “Holy pain? That’s twisted.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s human. Easter isn’t about escaping suffering. It’s about finding meaning inside it. Christ didn’t skip the cross; He walked through it.”

Jack: “So we’re supposed to celebrate that? A man dying, bleeding, nailed up like some cosmic punishment?”

Jeeny: “We celebrate that death didn’t get the last word.”

Host: A gust of wind passed, scattering the petals from a nearby tree. They fell like snow over the old stone path, landing softly at their feet.

Jack: “You think resurrection’s real, Jeeny? Like—literal?”

Jeeny: “Literal, spiritual, emotional — all of it. I’ve seen people rise in ways that have nothing to do with graves.”

Jack: “Give me an example.”

Jeeny: “A mother who forgives the man who killed her son. An addict who puts down the bottle after years. A man who finally says, ‘I forgive myself.’ That’s resurrection, Jack.”

Jack: “That’s survival, not resurrection.”

Jeeny: “No. Survival is when you keep breathing. Resurrection is when you start living again.”

Host: The sunlight reached the cross atop the church steeple now, catching it in gold. The shadows of the grave markers stretched long and soft across the grass.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. Like we just decide to believe and—boom—rebirth.”

Jeeny: “It’s never easy. That’s why it’s sacred.”

Jack: “So what, you think God’s out here keeping score? Waiting to see who gets back up the fastest?”

Jeeny: “No. I think He’s the hand that helps you up when you can’t.”

Host: A bird began to sing — one clear note, piercing the mist, fragile but insistent. Jeeny smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “Listen to that. Even the earth is preaching resurrection.”

Jack: “That’s biology, not theology.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing. Life returns, again and again, no matter how often we bury it.”

Host: Jack stared down into his coffee, watching the steam rise and vanish. His reflection wavered on the surface — fragmented, fleeting.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to hate Easter. No presents, no lights, just long church services and people pretending to be holy. It felt empty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you weren’t ready to hear what it was really saying.”

Jack: “Which is?”

Jeeny: “That nothing — not even death — has the power to make life meaningless.”

Host: Her words landed softly, like a slow light entering a closed room. The wind quieted. The sky opened into a paler blue.

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “Every time the sun rises, I do.”

Jack: “And when it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then I wait.”

Host: Jack looked at her, long and searching. The church bells began to ring — low, resonant, each note rolling through the morning like waves breaking against silence.

Jeeny: “You see, Easter isn’t about proof. It’s about promise.”

Jack: “Promises break.”

Jeeny: “But hope rebuilds them.”

Host: A child’s laughter echoed faintly from across the churchyard — two small figures chasing each other between the gravestones, their voices bright and careless. The sight drew a small, reluctant smile from Jack.

Jack: “You know, they say kids find Easter boring. Maybe they’re right. Maybe we only learn to love it when we’ve been buried a few times.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly.”

Host: She reached out and brushed the back of his hand. Her fingers were cold but steady.

Jeeny: “You’ve died before, Jack. Not your body — your hope. Your trust. Your belief that good things come back. Maybe this year’s the one where you rise.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “What if I don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll wait by your tomb until you do.”

Host: The sun finally broke through the clouds — full, warm, alive. Its light flooded the churchyard, gilding every stone, every blade of grass, every trace of shadow.

Jack: (whispering) “You talk like you believe in miracles.”

Jeeny: “I do. You’re talking to one.”

Host: The bells kept ringing. Their sound seemed endless — ancient, patient, full. Jack looked toward the church doors, then back at Jeeny. For the first time, his eyes softened.

Jack: “Maybe resurrection isn’t about escaping death. Maybe it’s about learning how to live with it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the good news, Jack. That death doesn’t win — not out there, not in here.” (touches her chest)

Host: The light bathed them both now — the skeptic and the believer, standing at the edge of old stones and new beginnings. The air smelled of wet earth and renewal.

Host: Somewhere, inside the church, a choir began to sing — not loudly, not perfectly, but with that unmistakable trembling honesty of human faith.

Host: Jack closed his eyes. The sound washed through him. And though he would never admit it aloud, something small and stubborn inside him stirred — not peace, not purity, but the faint pulse of resurrection.

Host: The sun climbed higher, the mist lifted, and the world — weary, beautiful, imperfect — woke once more to its oldest story: that what is lost can rise again.