There is a quiet figure in the New Testament who feels especially connected to the Easter season—not one of the apostles, but an elderly man named Simeon.
We meet him in the Gospel of Luke. He is described simply as “righteous and devout,” waiting for the consolation of Israel. Waiting—that word says so much. By the time Mary and Joseph bring the infant Jesus to the temple, Simeon is already advanced in years. We don’t know how long he had been waiting, only that the Holy Spirit had promised him he would not see death before he had seen the Messiah.
Imagine that kind of waiting. Not days or months, but years—perhaps decades. Watching the world change. Feeling his own body slow. Wondering, at times, whether the promise would still be fulfilled in his lifetime.
I remember, as a child, what waiting felt like—at least in a small way. I must have been five or six years old when I ordered a plastic fighter jet with fifty cents and a few cereal boxtops. The instructions included a mysterious message: “Please allow six weeks for delivery.”
“Is it here yet, Mom?” I would ask—every day.
Each morning, as she poured cereal into my bowl, I would stare at the picture of that sleek jet on the back of the box. “Is it here yet?”
My mom must have been exasperated. “You have to wait longer,” was all she could say.
I can still remember the longing—that ache of anticipation. I was sure that when the toy finally arrived, all that waiting would be replaced by perfect happiness.
And eventually, it did come. It even had a tiny missile that could shoot out of the nose with a spring-loaded snap.
Something Greater
But Simeon’s waiting was for something infinitely greater.
When the moment finally came, he took the child Jesus into his arms and spoke words that have echoed across the centuries:
“Now, Master, you may let your servant go in peace… for my eyes have seen your salvation.”
There is something deeply Easter-like in that moment.
Because Simeon’s story is not just about waiting—it is about fulfillment. It is about a promise kept. It is about the quiet assurance that God is at work even when life feels like a long stretch of uncertainty.
Many of the seniors we serve—and many of you reading this—know something about waiting.
Waiting for strength to return.
Waiting for clarity in difficult decisions.
Waiting through loneliness, grief, or change.
Waiting while caring for someone you love, unsure what tomorrow will bring.
Easter speaks directly into that waiting.
The Passion reminds us that suffering is real and often prolonged. The Cross shows us that love can endure even the hardest moments. And the Resurrection proclaims that God’s promises are never abandoned—they are fulfilled, often in ways we could not have imagined.
Simeon did not see the full story of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. Yet he held, in his arms, the beginning of that promise—and that was enough for him to say, “I can be at peace.”
At the Easter Vigil this year, I heard a phrase during the rites of initiation that stayed with me. It spoke of the hope that, at the end of life, we may “run to meet Christ with all the saints when he comes.”
There is a quiet wisdom in that image.
The end of life is not meant to be a slow fading marked only by fear or resignation. For those who have waited in faith, it becomes something else entirely—an awakening, an urgency, even a kind of joy. Not because the years have been easy, but because the promise, at last, is near.
Like Simeon, we are not simply waiting for something.
We are waiting for Someone.