Finding a Glimmer of Hope When Feeling Hopeless –
The scent of rain lingered on the evening breeze as Evelyn stood at the threshold of the old church, hesitating. She wasn’t the type to enter a church willingly anymore, not after everything. But grief had a way of making one reconsider things she once dismissed. It had been almost a year since David died. Her husband, the unwavering force of hope in her life, was taken too soon. She will do anything right now for a glimmer of hope.
Now, on this Friday, before the Holy Week, she had wandered back to the old church. Â St. Jude stood on a hill overlooking the small coastal town of Seabrook, its stone walls weathered by centuries of salt spray and sea winds. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood and the faint, lingering aroma of incense. Evelyn sat in a pew near the back, the worn wood cool beneath her fingers.
She hadn’t been to a service in months, not since her husband, David, had died. But something about the Easter Season, the promise of renewal, had drawn her here. Or perhaps it was the gnawing guilt.
The vicar, a young woman named Sarah, spoke of resurrection, of life emerging from death, a glimmer of hope in the face of despair. Her words, though familiar, felt distant to Evelyn, like echoes from a forgotten dream. Evelyn’s despair was a constant companion, a heavy cloak she wore every day. David’s death had been sudden, a heart attack, leaving her adrift in a world that suddenly felt empty and meaningless. They had no children, and David had been her entire world.
After the service, as the congregation filed out into the bright spring sunshine, Evelyn found herself lingering. Sarah approached her, her eyes kind and compassionate.
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest – Matthew 11:28
“You seem troubled,” she said gently.
Evelyn hesitated, then found herself pouring out her grief, the words tumbling from her like stones from a broken wall. She spoke of her love for David, of the life they had built together, and of thecrushing loneliness that now consumed her. The pain from her grief has ruined all hopes for any joy or happiness in her future. All she craves is just a little glimmer of hope, knowing that the
Sarah listened patiently, offering no easy answers, no platitudes about heaven. When Evelyn finally fell silent, Sarah said, “Easter is a story of hope, but it’s also a story of loss. Jesus’s disciples experienced profound grief and confusion. It’s okay to grieve, to feel lost. It’s part of the journey.”
Outside, the churchyard was filled with the vibrant colours of spring. Daffodils bloomed in golden clusters, and the sea breeze carried the scent of salt and new life. Evelyn watched a young couple walking hand-in-hand, their faces radiant with love. The sight pierced her heart with a fresh wave of sorrow.
Later that day, Evelyn found herself drawn to the beach, the place where she and David had often walked. The tide was out, leaving a wide expanse of wet sand. As she walked, she noticed a small, struggling bird, its wing tangled in a discarded fishing net. The bird thrashed weakly, its cries barely audible above the crashing waves.
Evelyn felt a surge of empathy for the trapped creature. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced in months, a connection to something outside her own pain. Carefully, she approached the bird, her hands trembling. The net was tightly wound around its wing, cutting into its flesh. It took her a long time, working with gentle persistence, to free the bird.
But do not forget to do good and to share, for with such sacrifices God is well pleased. – Hebrews 13:16
Finally, with a soft cry, the bird was free. It lay exhausted in her hand for a moment, then, with a sudden burst of energy, it took flight, soaring upwards into the vast expanse of the sky.
Evelyn watched it go, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. In that small act of rescue, something shifted within her. She hadn’t felt David’s presence, or a miraculous lifting of her grief. Instead, she had felt a flicker of life within herself, a reminder of her own capacity for compassion and resilience.
Over the next few weeks, Evelyn began to volunteer at a local animal shelter. The work was demanding and often heartbreaking, but it gave her a sense of purposesense of purpose, and a way to channel her grief into something positive. She found solace in the quiet companionship of the animals, in the simple acts of caring and nurturing.
One evening, Sarah visited Evelyn at the shelter. They sat in the small office, surrounded by the soft sounds of purring cats and the gentle rustling of straw.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Evelyn said, “about loss being part of the journey. I’m starting to understand that grief isn’t something you get over. It’s something you learn to carry.”
Sarah nodded. “It’s like the cracked seed,” she said. “It has to break open, to die in a way, before new life can emerge. Easter reminds us of that.”
Evelyn thought of the bird on the beach, of its struggle and its eventual flight. By helping the bird, she felt in her heart a little glimmer of hope and oce again, she thought of David, and the love they had shared. The pain of his absence would always be there, but perhaps, like the spring that followed winter, new life could still blossom in the broken places.
She remembered a passage from the Bible, from the book of Isaiah:
He will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces…” (Isaiah 25:8).
It was a promise of future hope, but also a reminder that even in the midst of sorrow, God was present, offering comfort and strength.
And she recalled words from Richard Rohr: “To live Easter means to let Jesus touch the places in us that are dead so that they can come alive.” Evelyn realised that this was her challenge: to allow herself to be touched, to allow the possibility of new life, even in her grief.
On Easter Sunday, Evelyn stood in the churchyard, the sun warm on her face. The daffodils were in bloom again, a vibrant reminder of the cyclical nature of life. She still felt the ache of loss, but it was no longer a crushing weight. It was a part of her, woven into the fabric of her being, but it didn’t define her. She thought of David, not with the sharp agony of grief, but with a quiet sense of gratitude for the love they had shared. And she thought of the future, not with fear, but with a tentative sense of hope, a willingness to embrace whatever life might bring. The cracked seed had begun to sprout.
As the days turned into weeks, Evelyn found herself drawn back to church. Not every Sunday, but occasionally, seeking the quiet solace of its ancient walls. She began to participate in a grief support group, with a sense of purpose, she shares her story with others who understood her pain. She discovered that she wasn’t alone, that others had walked this path before her, and that healing, though slow and painful, was possible.
What aspects of Evelyn’s journey in A Glimmer of Hope – Seabrook Easter Story resonate with you most?
In the quiet hours of the night, when grief whispers the loudest, hope often feels like a distant dream, fragile, and uncertain. But even the smallest glimmer of hope can be enough. Like a candle in the dark, it flickers, resisting the shadows. Evelyn had learned that renewal wasn’t about erasing pain but about carrying it forward, allowing the light of hope to soften its edges. Her loss would always be a part of her, but so too would the possibility of joy. And just as dawn breaks the longest night, hope, no matter how faint, remains a promise of things yet to come.
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. – Psalm 30:5
While Easter eggs and springtime blooms bring delight, the true heart of Easter goes far deeper. It’s a celebration of resurrection, renewal, and victory, a reminder that Jesus conquered death, and because of Him, we have new life, living hope, and eternal promise.
No matter what season you’re in right now, may you be reminded that the same power that raised Christ from the grave is still at work today—in your life, in your heart, and in your purpose.
May your day be filled with peace, joy, and a fresh sense of God’s unfailing love.
What are your thoughts? Has an Easter moment ever shifted something within you? How have you experienced renewal or transformation in the midst of loss or challenging times? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below – your story may help someone. I’d love to hear your reflections, let’s continue the conversation!