he Octave of Easter invites us to remain in the light of the Resurrection a little longer—to resist the quiet pull back into ordinary time and instead dwell in the astonishment of what has happened. Christ is risen, and yet the disciples themselves struggle to take it in. The Gospel scenes of these days are full of hesitation, confusion, and a gradual awakening.
There is something deeply comforting in that.
Faith, even in the presence of the Resurrection, is not always immediate or effortless. The disciples hear the news, they see the empty tomb, and still they wrestle to believe. And yet Christ does not withdraw from them. He comes again and again—patiently, gently—meeting them where they are.
At times, we may recognise something of this in our own prayer: moments when we know the truth of the Resurrection, and yet find our hearts slow to grasp it.
Today is a reminder that the risen Christ meets us in that very place. He does not demand perfect understanding, but openness. He does not require that we have everything resolved—only that we allow ourselves to be found.
Easter is not just a single moment of triumph; it is a slow unfolding. It comes in stages—in recognition, in trust, in the quiet turning of the heart.
And so today we pray not so much for certainty as for attentiveness:
to notice where Christ is already present,
to recognise His voice, perhaps in ways we might otherwise overlook,
and to allow the joy of the Resurrection to grow within us, even if only quietly, even if only gradually.
Christ is risen—and He is still drawing near.