Growing up in Korea, Easter felt like a rhythm I could always count on. It wasn’t just one Sunday — it was a whole week of services, songs, and anticipation. I remember how the church would fill with the scent of lilies, the choir singing a little louder, and the sound of my best friend calling me and waking me early for sunrise service. We’d bundle up and make our way to church in the cool spring air, still a bit sleepy but eager for what the day meant.
Easter wasn’t just a day at church. It was a community event, a celebration of life, and the warmth that followed. After the service, we’d gather in the church basement to share rice cakes and sweet instant coffee. These little moments were precious. They weren’t extravagant, but they were enough. Together, with everyone smiling and laughing, the ritual felt like home. It was Easter, and the world felt a little brighter. We had traditions, and they gave us something familiar, something to hold on to in the midst of a constantly changing world.
But everything changed when I moved to New York City.
My first Easter in NYC was quieter than I had expected. I was an international student, kind of new to the city, and still getting the hang of subway rides and roommates. The church I attended that year wasn’t where I grew up, and I didn’t really know anyone yet. The service was beautiful, but there was no line for rice cakes or warm chats. I left church and walked through the crowded streets, feeling both surrounded by people and incredibly alone. The city buzzed with life, but it wasn’t the same as back home. I felt disconnected from the routines and the traditions that had once anchored me.
Yet, strangely, it was in that quiet, lonely moment that the story of Easter began to hit me in a new way. Because Easter is about more than just the traditions we know — it’s about what happens after the worst thing. It’s about how death and grief are not the end. It’s about how Jesus, after being buried, rose again — not in the temple, but in a quiet garden, at dawn. And it’s about how He meets people where they are, in their doubts, their confusion, their pain, and in their joy.
That first Easter in New York, I found myself sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park, surrounded by strangers, but somehow feeling connected to something much bigger than myself. The spring air was crisp, and for the first time, I felt a small flicker of hope, even in the unfamiliar. I wasn’t in my homeland, but I was still in God’s presence. The resurrection wasn’t just a story of ancient history — it was a truth for today, for me, here.
Now, every Easter reminds me of the beauty of both places. I think about the warm rice cakes and familiar faces in Korea, but also the quiet moments of reflection in New York, where the resurrection became something more personal, more tangible. Jesus’ resurrection isn’t confined to one place, one tradition, or one group of people. It’s a story that transcends borders and languages. It’s a hope that follows us wherever we go.
So this Easter, whether you’re far from home or surrounded by friends, know that the same Savior who rose in a garden over 2,000 years ago is with you now. The resurrection isn’t just for those who feel at home — it’s for the wanderers, the students, the dreamers. And that, I believe, is the truest kind of homecoming.
Happy Easter, everyone! 🧡
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