Inside a cramped minivan in a Target parking lot on a humid Indiana summer afternoon, my wise older sister helped me realize it was time to propose to my significant other. With a hefty portion of hope, and little idea where we would live or what we would do, we were married one year later.

Powered by curiosity, we later moved across the country to start a career where everything was new to us. The whiplash came two months later when we planned a return trip, as it became clear that cancer was beginning to take my mother’s life.

A few months after that, another trip became necessary. We found a much more serious scene than we had expected. My mom, 57 years old, died minutes after we arrived.

A couple of years later, hope bloomed in the form of a positive pregnancy test. But the day before the baby shower, 21 weeks of pregnancy ended suddenly in the emergency room.

Hope is to grief as life is to death: intertwined in devastating ways. Our life has acted this out for us in more ways than I care to list.

Five of the first six years of our marriage included the death of someone we loved — and always in February.

So, after several years, with our first child in tow, we moved back across the country to be closer to family and old friends. As our first February in this new place came to a close, I walked to the grocery store, picked out a cake, asked them to write “We Survived February” on it and presented it to a surprised and amused spouse.

My laughter at this goofy presentation came from a deep place. It helped that the lettering was somewhat clumsily executed by an ambitious young clerk. But it was more than that. There was a sense of relief.

This was an inside joke we had earned with tears and blood and loss, and the truth of the joke was very good news. We hadn’t erased the grief but placed it in the context of hope.

It is profoundly human to point our worst gestures and coarsest words toward suffering and death. One organization that promotes awareness and early detection of cancer goes by the name F*** Cancer (also known as the FC Cancer Foundation). On their website, they apologize for any offense their name might cause, explaining that they “are offended and have a problem with the word cancer.”

It’s natural to get angry at the things that cause death. The explicit nature of this organization’s message is a part of its effectiveness.

Humor has a similar dynamic. Laughing at death (not at the people facing it) steals some of its power. The Apostle Paul scoffed at death: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:55).

Soon we will celebrate the Resurrection, the ultimate mockery of death. Jesus, who healed, fed, raised, restored and defended countless people, died next to criminals through public torture. Hope tangled in grief.

But it’s the rest of the story that surprises. We might imagine that the one to defeat death would be a hulking figure with a glowing aura. But instead, when Jesus emerges from the tomb, Mary Magdalene mistakes him for a gardener. Then Jesus shows up to the others as some guy shouting unsolicited fishing advice. They don’t recognize him until he tells them to eat their breakfast.

These are humorous scenarios that, in their telling, diminish death’s power. Resurrection has become ordinary. Death is still around, but it has been made to look like a fool.

Grief, as we know all too well, is perennial. It is not something to dismiss, make light of or graduate from. Jesus grieved even though he knew more about resurrection than anyone else. Grief is inevitable, but hope stands steadfast alongside, ready to help us hold our grief in its place.

Perhaps, in this season of Lent, alongside our pious solemnity, we can find a place within our grief for hope-charged laughter that is as unassuming as our risen Lord.

Kevin Chupp is pastor at the Mennonite Church of Normal, Ill.