RESURRECTION
RESURRECT
In my Pondosity™ arc over these past several months, we have walked through Repent, Reconcile, and Redeem—each one inviting us deeper into truth, into repair, into the restoration of what was lost.
And now, as we enter one of the most recognized faith-centered seasons across the world, there is one word we cannot leave untouched: Resurrect.
On its own, it is a powerful word—one that speaks of life where there had been death, of rising where there had been silence, and of unity where there had been separation.
Resurrection is not where we begin.
It is what becomes possible because we have turned, repaired, and restored.
Over these past months, I have found myself walking through a quiet progression—
from repentance,
to reconciliation,
to redemption…
and now,
to resurrection.
And yet, even here—I have had to ask myself something honestly:
Why is it that, at times, I don’t feel worth the effort of rising again?
Why, after truth has been faced…
after repair has been attempted—and often accomplished…
after something has been restored…
do I still find myself
hesitating to fully come back to life?
Why do we find ourselves pulled back into patterns that no longer serve us, even when we’ve done the work to move forward?
Why does one moment—one trigger, one memory, one wound—have the power to undo what we’ve worked so hard to rebuild?
Is it the weight of what we’ve carried for so long that leaves us exhausted—fighting the same battles again and again?
Or the lingering ache—
of abandonment,
of rejection,
of betrayal—that quietly pulls us back into what is familiar, even when it no longer serves us?
And yet—something remains.
A quiet, steady thread.
Hope.
There are places around the world—including one of the places I’ve lived—where people do what is called spelunking…entering deep into the earth, moving through narrow passageways and caves, navigating spaces where light disappears and direction is no longer obvious.
And there are moments in life that feel very much like that.
Where you are no longer sure you can move forward…or back.
Where the air feels thin.
Where panic begins to rise.
Where you cannot see a way out—and the thought quietly enters:
What if I’m stuck here?
What if this doesn’t change?
What if this is where it ends?
And in those moments—there is only one thing left to do.
Breathe.
Slowly.
Intentionally.
Not forcing your way out but allowing your body to settle enough to find the next small movement—so your mind can clear and your eyes can adjust to the dark, so you can move forward with clarity and wisdom.
And it is often there—not in the escape, but in the stillness—that something begins to shift.
And in moments like that…when you cannot yet see the way out, when the light has not yet returned—this is where faith lives.
There is a verse I return to often—especially in moments like these, when I feel caught in the in-between and unsure of what comes next. It is one I have called my favorite more than once, because it seems to find me exactly when I need it most.
Hebrews 11:1 (AMP):
“Now faith is the assurance (title deed, confirmation) of things hoped for (divinely guaranteed), and the evidence of things not seen [the conviction of their reality—faith comprehends as fact what cannot be experienced by the physical senses].”
And for me—that hope is not abstract.
It is anchored in the truth that death itself was not the end.
That what looked final…was not final.
And because of that—even in the darkest places, even in the most confined spaces, there is still life on the other side—eternal.
One of the questions that continues to rise for me is this:
Is healing something we arrive at once…or is it something we walk through, layer upon layer?
I remember, as a little girl, being absolutely fascinated—truly fascinated—by an onion.
I was often given the job of peeling it while my mom prepared dinner—getting it ready for her to dice as she moved through the rest of the cooking.
I didn’t love the yellow onions—they made me cry.
And I was drawn to the red ones—they were beautiful, they stained my fingers, and they didn’t sting in quite the same way.
But what fascinated me most…was the layers.
The way you never quite knew how many there were.
The way you had to keep going to reach the center.
And what I came to notice—over time—is that no two onions were ever the same.
Each one unfolded differently.
Each one revealed something unexpected as you moved inward.
I cut one open recently—a red onion I use almost daily— and inside, it looked as though there were two halves forming within one.
Not perfectly shaped…not fully formed…but still becoming.
It stopped me for a moment.
Because it reminded me—that even within what appears complete, there can still be something unfolding.
And somewhere along the way, that quiet observation became something more.
Because healing…does not always happen in a single moment.
Even when we reach the center of something—even when we believe we have truly worked through it—there are times when it rises again.
Years later.
Unexpectedly.
Something touches it—and we find ourselves having to breathe through it once more.
And perhaps that is the nature of healing.
Not something we complete once—but something we are invited to move through again and again…with greater awareness, greater capacity, and less fear.
Not avoiding what rises—but allowing it.
Not resisting the layer—but meeting it.
So that the healing can happen again…even more deeply.
For each of us, resurrection may hold a different meaning…but this is what it has come to mean in my life.
This is not just an idea to me—
or a philosophy,
or a religion,
or a historical blip on the map.
It is personal.
Easter is not simply a holiday in my life.
It is the anchor of my faith, my hope, and my purpose for living—today, tomorrow, and into eternity.
It is the reason I rise each day and the reason I am grateful for the breath my Creator has given me.
Because of what Jesus did on the cross—
what He carried,
what He endured—
was beyond comprehension,
physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
And yet…it was done in love.
Because of that,
I am able to stand and endure.
At times, my own endurance feels heavy—and yet, in light of what He carried, I am reminded that I am not carrying it alone.
Jesus chose to enter into humanity—to feel pain, our pain, to know what it is to suffer, and to carry what was never His to carry.
He took on what was truly mine—my sin, my brokenness—so that I would no longer remain separated from the Father.
He was my bridge.
He is my bridge.
Not by striving.
Not by earning.
But through Him.
He conquered death.
And because of that—hope is not something I reach for blindly.
It is something I stand on.
I don’t believe in blind faith—because faith, to me, is not blind.
It is something I have worked through—
through studying history,
through culture,
through biographies,
through context,
and through questioning.
And in that process, I have found that asking questions, being curious, while pondering and digging deeper does not weaken faith— it strengthens it.
Because resurrection happened once—through Jesus, for us.
And yet, we are invited to participate in it daily.
Not once…but again and again.
Etymology — Resurrect
The word resurrect comes from the Latin resurgere.
• re- meaning again, back, anew
• surgere meaning to rise
Quite simply, it means to rise again.
Redemption restores worth.
Resurrection restores life.
Pause & Contemplate
Where in your life do you sense something has been laid down…but may not yet be complete?
Pause & Center
Where in your body do you notice resistance or guarding…and what might it feel like to allow safety to return?
Pause & Commit
What is one gentle step you are willing to take toward life again?
Consider
There are seasons where we stand at a quiet crossroads—not marked by urgency…but by awareness.
What am I willing to choose now that I see more clearly?
One breath at a time.
One choice at a time.
One quiet rising after another.
Until next time—may what is rising within you continue to find its way forward.
💜💜💜