"Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed." (John 20:29)

I’m not surprised that Thomas doubted.

The other disciples had seen Jesus, touched his wounds, received the Holy Spirit. And yet—a week later—they’re still behind locked doors. If Easter had truly taken root, wouldn’t something have changed?

Thomas wasn’t being unreasonable. He just wanted what they had: a real encounter, something to hold onto. And really, who can blame him? Especially when the world still feels so heavy. When grief clings close and cruelty seems louder than compassion. Where’s the proof that Christ is risen?

Maybe that’s the deeper invitation of this Gospel. Resurrection isn’t proven by an empty tomb or a scarred body. It shows itself in transformed lives—disciples moving from fear to courage, from silence to witness. It's seen in people who forgive when it’s hard, who serve without being thanked, who love when it costs them something.

Belief isn’t just accepting a story. It’s about living it. And that kind of life leaves marks.

If we call ourselves Christian but lock ourselves in rooms of fear and self-protection—if we take food or medicine from the poor, deny people their rights or dignity, or close our hearts to those in need—then we betray the very Gospel we profess. We become, as Scripture might say, slaves to The Lie. The truest evidence of the Resurrection is not in what we say, but in how we live—whether we embody the peace, justice, and mercy of the One who still bears the wounds of love.

We bear those wounds, too.

The ache of grief, the fatigue of caring, the heartbreak of watching others suffer. The daily effort to stay tender in a world that rewards hardness. The vulnerability of forgiving, of staying, of showing up again and again. These are not signs of failure. They’re signs that love has taken root in us.

And yet…some days, I am weary. I could just weep. The struggle isn’t over—it may just be beginning. But even then, Jesus comes. Not after we’ve figured it all out, but right in the middle of the mess. He comes through locked doors. He breathes peace. He shows his wounds. And he invites us to believe—not because it all makes sense, but because love still lives.

And if you find yourself doubting, grieving, barely holding on—you are not alone. The Risen Christ is near. In the tiredness. In the tears. In the quiet, stubborn hope that maybe—just maybe—love will rise again.