Usually my Easter reading consists of 'Who Moved the Stone?,'

“Usually my Easter reading consists of ‘Who Moved the Stone?,’ which gets dusted off annually and read, often in one sitting, to remind me of the miracle of redemption, resurrection, and life after death.” Thus spoke Ann Widdecombe, a woman of intellect and conviction, whose words carry the weight of faith long contemplated. Her reflection, though personal and humble, reveals something timeless and universal — the yearning of the human spirit to renew its faith, to touch again the mystery of redemption, and to remember, amidst the weariness of the world, the power of resurrection.

The book she speaks of, Who Moved the Stone?, was written by Frank Morison, a skeptic turned believer. It began not as a testament of faith, but as an investigation born of doubt. Morison, seeking to disprove the resurrection of Christ, examined the evidence with the rigor of a scholar — and in that very pursuit, his disbelief crumbled. What began as an argument against faith became a confession of it. Thus, the book itself stands as a symbol of the transformation of the heart, the very essence of the Easter miracle. It is no wonder that Widdecombe returns to it year after year, as one might revisit an ancient well to draw water for the soul.

For Easter is not merely a festival of remembrance — it is a season of awakening. It is the time when winter’s long silence yields to the song of life renewed, when despair gives way to hope. To read of the resurrection is not simply to recall a story of old, but to confront the eternal truth that no darkness is final, no tomb forever sealed. The rolling away of the stone — that great symbol of death’s dominion — is, for Widdecombe and for all who believe, the image of the heart’s liberation. Each year, when she dusts off Morison’s work, she too re-enacts that sacred gesture: clearing away the dust that settles upon the soul, to let the light shine anew.

In the ancient world, such rituals of renewal were woven into the rhythm of life. The Egyptians celebrated the rising of Osiris, the Greeks the return of Persephone from the underworld, and the Romans the festival of spring. All these myths, though imperfect reflections, whispered of a truth that humanity has always known — that life conquers death, and light endures beyond the night. Yet in the Christian faith, this truth takes its highest form: not as myth, but as revelation, embodied in the resurrection of Christ. To meditate on this, as Widdecombe does through her annual reading, is to remember that faith, too, must rise anew each year, each day, from the ashes of doubt.

Her practice — to revisit the same book, to read it again “in one sitting” — is itself a sacred act of discipline and remembrance. For the ancients taught that truth is not learned once but continually rediscovered. Just as the farmer tills the same soil each season to bring forth new harvest, so must the believer return to the familiar words that feed the spirit. What was read last year may now speak differently, for the heart itself has changed. This is the quiet wisdom hidden in Widdecombe’s custom: that faith matures through repetition, through patient devotion to the same eternal story, which deepens with every retelling.

The lesson she offers is one of both constancy and renewal. In a world that races toward novelty, she reminds us of the power of returning — of rereading, re-believing, reawakening to what we already know but too easily forget. The miracle of redemption is not a single moment in history, but a rhythm woven through all of life: fall and rising, death and rebirth, doubt and faith. To engage with it, one must slow down, as she does, to read and reflect — to sit in silence and let the ancient truth speak again.

Therefore, O listener, learn from her example: dust off the books of wisdom that once stirred your soul. Revisit the stories that awaken your heart. Do not seek the new simply because it is new, but return to what is true because it endures. For as Ann Widdecombe reminds us, the greatest miracles are not always found in discovery, but in remembrance — in the quiet act of turning once more to the story of light triumphant over darkness. And in doing so, you too may feel, as she does, the miracle of resurrection — not in the pages alone, but in the living chambers of your own heart.