The freedom Christ provides is more than just freedom from sin; it is freedom from guilt, from pain, from shame, and from the weight of sin that so easily ensnares us.

Remember this truth as you read the story below: he whom the Son sets free is free indeed. And no one could ever take this freedom from us. No one.

---

As the courtroom doors opened before me, I prepared myself for the inevitable confrontation with my enemy, my nemesis, my accuser–the one who would never let me forget all I had done.  I shuttered at the thought of what he would bring up.   The lies?  The shame? The doubts? The mistakes?

The anticipation weighed heavily upon me, for I was guilty of so much.

And oh how I longed to flee–flee from this place–flee from everyone–flee from everything. But I was bound–chained to my sins, chained to my pain, and chained to my shame. The physical chains holding me prisoner were nothing compared to the shackles surrounding my heart.

While I reluctantly shuffled into the court room, I purposefully fixed my eyes on the floor.  I didn’t dare look up.  I knew I’d see the eyes of my accuser glaring at me, diminishing what little of me still existed.

When I sat down in my chair (secretly thankful it could bear the weight of everything​ I carried inside), I could sense someone seated next to me. Yet I didn’t dare to look. What was the point? I couldn’t bear to face another accuser and certainly no one would dare to defend me. Who could ever defend what I’d done? Who would ever want to try?

My accuser, sensing my weakness at its peak, stood up and began to attack.  He accused me of my sins, of my mistakes.  He poured on the shame and the pain. He played out every detail of every dark deed I’d ever done or thought about​ doing.

Each accusation pierced my already shackled heart. And I couldn’t control the emotion; I wept.

Upon seeing the success of his attack, my accuser sat down. He had made his case before the judge. He was finished.

And I was broken.

Silence ensued.

What could I do?  What could I say?  My accuser had nailed every aspect of my life.  I was ashamed.

I was guilty.

And then I felt it: the hand on my shoulder.   The warmth of its touch conveyed strength without condemnation, compassion without judgment and sent shivers down my spine.   Who could possibly want to touch my filth, my ugliness, and my shame?

Compelled to see the person behind this living, loving touch, I ever so slowly lifted my eyes.  A man met my gaze.   The same compassion, strength, and love that were in his touch now emanated from his eyes.  He loved me.   This man who had just heard the accuser—who knew all the darkness within me–loved me. But how? How could it be?

With his hand still on my shoulder, the one who knew me and loved me turned to the judge and spoke. “My Father.”

My Father?!  He was the judge’s son?! Why would the judge’s son love me?! Why would the judge’s son try to help me?! This just didn’t make sense.

The man continued, “I present to you Katie:  righteous, holy, and worthy of acceptance.”  His words penetrated my heart.   Righteous?  Holy?  Worthy?  But how?  Didn’t he see me as I saw me?!

Apparently not.

He turned back to me, his intense love piercing the darkness in my heart, reached out his hand—his nail scarred hand—and invited me to take it, to join him in fellowship.

As I reached out to take his hand, I sensed the shackles surrounding  my broken heart fall away. And the sound of metal resonated within the courtroom as my physical chains also fell to the floor. This wasn’t just a man; He was my Healer–the One who was going to pick up the broken pieces of my heart and mend them into His image.

I was not only forgiven; I was free.

I heard the accuser groan.

With a new confidence, I turned to face the judge.  There was no condemnation.   No fear.   There was no death sentence.  Just love.

The judge began to speak: “My precious child, before the foundation of the world, I knew you,” He declared.  “I created you, Katie.  I formed you with value and with a purpose.  Marvelous are My works and you are one of them.  You are Mine.  I love you.”

Three words—I love you—again cut through the darkness.   I crumpled to the floor.  How could it be that the Holy One could love me?

Knowing my thoughts, He continued. “Because I love you, Katie, I sent my Son, my beloved Son, to save you.  He paid the penalty for your sins.  He died in your place then rose again in order to give you life—a new life.  You are justified and free, Katie.  You have been redeemed.  You are a new creation.  You are my precious child whom I adore. Come.  Have fellowship with us and be free.”

I bowed before my Lord and my Savior—grateful to be alive, grateful to be free, and grateful to be loved.   His Son again took my hand and lifted me up from the floor.

I stood up a new person.

And my accuser fled.

My Savior had won!

His love had filled the void and vanquished the lies.  I was whole.   I was free—free from condemnation, free from shame, free from pain, free from the chains.  I had been set free by the son, and I was free indeed….

And so are you…

If you believe.

For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe is condemned already, because he has not believed in the name of the only Son of God.
John 3:17‭-‬18

You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if in fact the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness.
Romans 8:9‭-‬10 ESV

As I’ve been reading through Romans, God’s been reminding me of the freedom He brings.  Paul continually tells us we are free from the law of sin and death. We are free from condemnation. We are free of the flesh. We are free to believe in Jesus and to walk in newness of life.

We are free.

Our freedom, however, is not based on anything we have done ourselves. Christ alone has set us free;  salvation is a gift of love and grace, not something deserved or earned. Salvation is based solely on what Christ did when he died on the cross and rose again from the grave three days later. 

Below is a story I wrote many years ago but have edited in recent days. I believe I shared the other version last year but thought I’d share this one as well. I pray as you read it you will see the truth it conveys: the truth of God’s love and God’s salvation and the accompanying freedom for all who believe (Romans 1:16).  Yes.  All.  Including you.

Shadow of Turning by Me

A soft tapping could be heard outside my window as a cool breeze rustled the trees. I always loved the days when no one else was home. I’d always do what I was doing just then: rest on the bed, listen to the quietness, and pet my cat Teddy. I loved the feeling of his warm, soft, long-haired body leaning against mine. Even now my fingers mindlessly stroked the silky smooth black hair that overwhelmed his little body. A low rumbling could be heard deep within him, voicing his approval of the affection.

I also loved the peacefulness that would accompany these moments of feeling alone in the universe—no one to perform for—no one to be responsible for—no one to please—no one to hurt–no one…but me.

I closed my eyes to take in the peacefulness of this solitude. Yet no sooner did I close my eyes then I sensed a sudden heat on my face. I opened my eyes to catch a glimpse of a beam of sunlight protruding through the trees, shining through the window, and shedding its light on the opposite wall. My once dull crayon yellow walls became a bright yellow like that of a newly blossomed daffodil. Intrigued by this streak of light’s ability to dispel darkness, I sat up and took notice of what I saw.

Interestingly, although the light had removed much of the darkness occupying my room, it also revealed a shadow. A very unusual shadow. A very compelling shadow.

And as I stood up to face the shadow, it too appeared to reluctantly rise from its position of concealment behind my dresser. Was that my shadow? It was a person with whom I had never openly conversed or met, yet it was one of my height, size, stature—nevertheless different.

I slowly, cautiously, drew closer to the shadow. The closer I got to the blemish on the otherwise spotless wall, the more its enormity revealed itself.

When I got a few feet from the shadow, I stopped. It had no eyes, yet I sensed I was peering deep into the invisible—yet so real—soul of this shadow—this person.

I gasped as I recognized this shadow’s soul. She was fierce. Angry. Melancholy. Hurt. Alone. Her eyes looked similar to those of an unloved basset hound. Yet I only saw the eyes for a moment, for her insecurity forced them toward the floor. She was hurting.

She was I.

My inner self, with all its hurts, anger, sadness, pain, was staring back at me. She was exposed in the light, no longer hidden within. I stared helplessly back in awe. Was that really all within me? What would I do now that I was facing my inner—the real—me?

My shadow left me no chance to answer, for she moved. I stared for a moment in shock as my shadow moved toward the door of my room without me. She slid along the wall behind the bureau, around the corner toward the entryway, and, right when she reached the doorway, she stopped. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she seemed to turn. I saw the silhouette of a finger beckon me to follow.

With much trepidation I followed my shadow. We traveled down the hallway that led to the living room. The pictures of my family were still scattered along the walls. I smiled as I saw my favorite of my mom sleeping on the couch as George, our first family cat, a main coon, slept stretched out beside her. I loved that picture because it showed how gargantuan George was; he was almost as long as my mother as she lay on her side.

I took notice of the changes evident in the hallway, however. Instead of the two doors that opened to my sisters’ rooms and the door that led to the bathroom, the hallway was all wall; it had ceased to have doors. The end—that end that I would expect to lead to the living room—was only a speck of light that seemed interminably distant from my room.

Nevertheless, my shadow and I proceeded, drawing nearer to the light. The light actually forced me to squint, for its very presence pierced the darkness, leaving my eyes fighting to adjust.

When we reached the doorway, my shadow disappeared. All that was between me and the light on the other side was the threshold. Unsure of whether I should continue, I looked behind me.

All that was behind me was darkness.

So after contemplating whether to enter back into the darkness or proceed forward into the light, I shielded my eyes and entered the light.

Once my eyes adjusted, I found myself standing in a meadow. I was alone, yet loneliness did not envelop me. My feet, bare, were hidden in a lush, green field of grass. The cool, tickling feeling of freshly cut grass on my skin sent a childlike joy throughout my body. The music of spring birds also began to take note. I closed my eyes for a moment and opened my ears to drink in the beautiful songs of spring. When I opened my eyes, a monarch butterfly, with magnificent colors fluttered just in front of me and gracefully set itself down on a honeysuckle. I breathed in deeply the scent of wildflowers and honey.

As I looked around to take in more of these Eden-like surroundings, I noticed a figure walking toward me. He drew closer, and I could see the figure was a man. There was nothing especially unusual about  him. He walked confidently but did not appear cocky; I could tell he was in shape, but he was not overly muscular. His hair and other features did not appear out of the ordinary, yet something about the sight of him forced me to desire a closer look. So I began to draw near to him.

And he drew near to me.

When I was close enough to see his eyes I stopped. I was mesmerized. They were like none I’d ever seen. When I peered into his eyes, I saw this peace, this love, this inexplicable well-being. Compassion seemed to emanate from his eyes. I felt transparent, like there was nothing hidden from the man—from his eyes. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t.

Then the man reached out his hand.  I took his hand and allowed him to lead me.

As we walked I noticed the strength of his hands. They looked soothing and felt like satin, yet his grip was firm, controlled, sturdy. It was like he was bold, yet gentle; a contradiction, yet one.

We stopped at the base of a small hill. While one hand was still holding mine, the man lifted his other hand and pointed to the top of a hill. On the hill stood a solitary cross. At first I didn’t see the significance of the cross, but then I caught the sight of slight, almost imperceptible, movement.

My shadow.

My shadow was hanging—dying—on the cross. Watching my shadow gasp for breath, I myself began to gasp for breath. Yet, as I attempted to take in, I felt myself becoming more and more empty. I was pouring myself out. My body began to tremble and I collapsed, landing on my knees in the grass.

The smell of the grass refreshed my senses, and I realized that I had lost touch with the man’s hand. I lifted my head to seek an answer for what was happening, but he was gone. I immediately looked up to the cross, horrified at what my eyes were now witnessing.

My shadow was gone. Yet the cross was not empty. The man, the man with the strong yet soft hands—the man with the piercing eyes of love—the man who saw right through me—was on the cross. He was dying.

I couldn’t move. I just kneeled there on the ground unable to change position, yet unable to take my eyes off the man on the cross. I watched him as he struggled to push up with his legs in order to gain a pinch of air. I watched as blood trickled down his face. I watched as his chest heaved in exhaustion, starved of precious life-giving oxygen. I watched when he looked at me with those eyes—those compassionate, piercing eyes—and gasped, “I love you.”

I watched him, as he died.

I continued to stare in disbelief at what I was witnessing, but then I noticed a group of men approaching the cross. They proceeded to take the man from the cross and carry him away. I was horrified at the thought of what the men were possibly going to do with the stranger who having never met me seemed to love me, so I ran after them.

“Stop!” I tried to yell as loud as I could, yet my cry seemed to go no further than my lips. The men continued to take the unknown man and place him in a tomb, rolling a stone in front of it.

I hid behind a tree until they left, then attempted to roll the stone away. I just wanted to get another glimpse of the man—of his hands—of his eyes. If only I could have what he had. It was to no avail, though. The stone would not move.

Exhaustion finally overwhelmed my body and I collapsed at the foot of the stone. I had been poured out, emptied of so much, yet I knew I still needed something. And I knew that man had it. Yet he was dead in the tomb, and I was out here. The thought of being so close to an answer yet so far devastated me, and I wept. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. It was like someone had released the dam that held back the tears of my entire life—and a flood was coming.

I don’t know how long I was there on the ground, my face buried in my hands. Yet, in the midst of my weeping, I felt something touch my shoulder. A hand. This hand, however, seemed familiar. The hand conveyed strength, but the hand poured out tender loving kindness as well. The realization of the only hand this could be sent chills throughout my body. I whipped around in joy to see the man I had been mourning and longing for. I gazed into his eyes—and they were still eyes of love, of peace, of care, of strength.

Just as he had done before, he held his hand for me to grasp. I immediately gripped his hand, and he pulled me up from the ground and began leading me to the tomb. The tomb no longer had the stone covering it, and I wondered how I never heard the stone being rolled away. It didn’t matter now, though, for the man I thought was dead was indeed alive.

When we reached the opening of the tomb, I peered inside expecting to see nothing but an empty space, for the man was now with me outside. My eyes widened, however, as I lay hold of a figure in the tomb. My shadow. My shadow was in the tomb, lifeless, dead. The man had risen, but my shadow remained dead.

I was beginning to piece things together in my mind that something in me had died today, but I was still unsure, and I still felt like something—a piece of me—was still missing. The man, most likely understanding my confusion, pointed to the far corner of the tomb. There, standing behind and to the right of my dead shadow, was another form. This form, however, was different. It did not shade the tomb; it brightened it. This new “shadow” illuminated light instead of hiding it. I peered into the soul of this new shadow as I had done my old, yet I didn’t see anger or hurt or pain; I saw love, peace, compassion, joy, freedom.

“Is that my new shadow?” I asked the man beside me, hoping it was indeed.

“It is My Spirit,” the man, whose voice was a spiritual elixir, replied. “All you have to do is invite Him in.”

Shocked yet ecstatic at the simplicity of it, I beckoned His Spirit to come, and as I began walking toward Him, He drew closer to me. When I reached out and embraced Him, the Spirit disappeared. Immediately I sensed a warm feeling within me, a newness, a refreshing. I sensed His Spirit. I sensed completion. What had been poured out on the cross with the death of my shadow and that man had been filled back up with the risen man and my new shadow—the new spirit within me.

I was whole. I was forgiven. I was free. The old had gone; the new had come.

“So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed” (John 8:36).

Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain which Jesus had designated. And when they saw Him, they worshiped Him; but some doubted [that it was really He].
Matthew 28:16-17 AMP

Jesus was alive! He was there with the disciples, speaking with the disciples, being worshiped by the disciples–yet some doubted it was really Him. They questioned what their eyes were seeing. Was this really the One they had just seen crucified? Was He really alive? Were they really seeing Jesus in the flesh once again? Did their Lord really defeat death?!

Yes! Yes He did!

Death could not hold Him. Nothing could.  Not doubt. Not fear. And definitely not feelings.

We must remember this today: Jesus is still alive whether or not we feel it and whether or not we choose to believe it. Our thoughts, our feelings, our emotions–nothing will ever change who God is. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. We may fall asleep in prayer, but God never slumbers nor sleeps. We may allow the busyness of life to distract us from the restorative fellowship of time with God, but God never leaves us nor forsakes us. God is God, not man. God is not hormonal. He is not fickle. He always acts in righteousness. His anger is always just. And He is holy.

So on this Monday, when once again we face the realities of life–when bills are due, when work resumes, when the excitement of Easter clothes, sunrise services,  family dinners, and candy-filled eggs are but memories–let us also be thankful Jesus’ victory was not dependent upon us. We would have fallen asleep in the garden. We would have fought those guards trying to arrest Him.  We would have denied Him to save ourselves. We would have vehemently defended His innocence. We would have cursed those who put Him on the cross. We would have lost all hope at the sight of His lifeless body being placed in the tomb. We would have doubted what our eyes were seeing when our Savior returned from the grave. Yes, if salvation were in our hands and based on our choices, we’d still be lost.

Jesus was beaten physically, abused emotionally, and punished spiritually for our sake. He felt it all–whatever physical struggle we may face, whatever emotional turmoil we may battle, even the excruciating pain of spiritual darkness and separation. Yet even though as a human He didn’t feel like going through with it; even though as a human He prayed for God to save Him if there were any other way, He followed through with it. Jesus endured all of it–even death–yet did not succumb to any of it. And with His surrender came His victory: Jesus is alive!

Yes, whether or not we feel it, whether or not we understand it, and whether or not we see Him in our circumstances–Jesus is still alive.

Hallelujah! Jesus is alive!

This means today–yes, even this Monday morning, when the coffee isn’t strong enough, the kids are up way too early, and your boss is taking things out on you–Jesus is still alive. And no matter how you feel or what you see, you are forgiven, you are free, and God is with you.

Jesus is alive!

Know, believe, trust in, and walk out this truth today. He defeated death, He wiped away sin, and He is preparing a place for us even now. Our bodies are mortal, our emotions up and down, and our circumstances uncertain, but God is eternal. And Jesus is alive!

This indeed is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.

He is not here, for he has risen, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay.
(Matthew 28:6)

He has risen! He has risen! Oh the joy those women and in turn the other disciples must have felt as they laid eyes on their risen Savior.  The One they thought dead was indeed alive! The stone had been rolled away. The tomb was empty. Hopes were no longer shattered.  Dreams were coming true. All things had become new. Death had been swallowed up in victory.

Oh what a glorious day!

And as New testament believers we get to celebrate this victory every day, especially as we approach Easter. We actually have the privilege of celebrating Easter from the viewpoint of victory. We are able to reflect on the events leading up to and including Jesus’ death, burial, and resurrection with joy and with hope.  Since we live on this side of the cross,  we know the victory of each moment shared and each word spoken during those last days of Jesus’ life on earth.

On Palm Sunday we can celebrate the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. Although those shouting “Hosanna!” were crying out for an earthly reign, we know their shouts went beyond that; they were giving glory to the King of heaven and of earth.

Thursday we remember the Last Supper–the breaking of bread, the drinking of the wine, the washing of the disciples’ feet, and even Judas’ choice to leave the fellowship of friends in pursuit of selfish gain. And as we remember that Last Supper, we see the significance of Jesus washing His disciples’ feet. We understand the symbolism of the broken bread and the fruit of the vine. And we even commemorate this moment each time we take communion.

We also look back at the Garden of Gethsemane–Jesus’ agonizing prayer, Judas’ kiss of betrayal, and the arrest–knowing the intense love our Savior must  have had to restrain Himself and to walk a path He did not deserve. We know what the disciples did not as they fought sleep in the Garden; we know what Jesus was about to do. Such knowledge affords us the ability to almost sense the agony in each word whispered by our suffering servant.

And then there is Friday–a day we label Good Friday because of what God accomplished that day. Yet the day God spread out His arms and paid our debts left anything but good feelings in those present to see Him die. Imagine the confusion, the heartache, the anger, and the fear those disciples must have experienced as they witnessed the one they had forsaken all for now quietly accepting a punishment He didn’t deserve–a punishment they knew He could have saved Himself from. They had walked with Him, fellowshipped with Him, hung on His every word. They had learned to trust Him with their lives. Some had actually vowed to give their lives for His. Yet they didn’t expect Him to give His own for theirs. They could not understand. They could not see.

And so they scattered. And they were probably scared. Who wouldn’t be, right? Their King was crucified. Despite Jesus’ promises of salvation and eternity, His death rocked the world of those who loved Him. During that first Easter weekend, the disciples didn’t bury their Lord with Sunday in their sights.  No. Within that span of time between Friday and Sunday loomed the silence of Saturday.

The silence of Saturday.

Let’s think about that Saturday–that day between the death and the resurrection. Take a moment and return with me to the stillness that day….A day of waiting…of wondering…of weeping…that span of time between the shock of shattered dreams and the realization of new beginnings.

Imagine what the disciples might have been thinking. Were they wondering what happened to the One they thought was King? Were they mourning those final moments they had squandered fighting over who would sit where when Jesus was king? Was Peter lamenting his inability to stand up for Jesus those three times he was given the opportunity? And that look. I’m sure that look of love Jesus had given Peter at the sound of the rooster’s crow must have remained etched on his heart long after His Lord had looked away. Were James and John realizing any part in God’s kingdom was better than none? Were they thinking they’d gladly give up their desire to be on the right and left of Jesus if they could just see Him again? Was Nathanael mourning the loss of the one good thing to come out of Nazareth?

I’m sure Martha would have let those dishes wait for a little while just to sit with her sister at Jesus’ feet and hear her Savior’s voice one more time. I’m sure as Mary prepared the spices for burial she would have gladly given another bottle of precious perfume just to wash her Lord’s feet with her tears and dry them with her hair again.

And Mary the mother of Jesus. As she mourned in the home of John–the man her son had provided for her at his death–was she replaying those dreams and visits from angels declaring her son would save the world? Was she wondering how it could be that she was on one side of the tomb and the One she expected to save her was on the other? What had happened to her Immanuel? What had happened to God with us?

I’m sure all those who had followed Jesus were asking themselves what had happened, what if they’d acted differently, and what would they do now.  Why did the one who healed so many not save Himself? What did they miss? Could it be they were wrong? Would He really return? Could it be Jesus was not who He said He was–that he was not who they believed Him to be?

Yet Jesus was who He said He was. And Jesus still is.

The disciples were not wrong; they had just misunderstood the message. For even though Jesus had warned them several times He’d be put to death and be buried before rising again, their eyes had not been focused on eternity.  They had never fully grasped that it was actually through Jesus’ death that He would bring life. Our Immanuel had to be with us in death so we could be with Him in life.

And so all they could see on that first Saturday was a tomb holding captive the one they had thought would set them free. All they could hear was the stillness of an uncertain future. The stone that had been  rolled across the entrance to the tomb had rolled across their hearts as well.

What the disciples could not see was that in the silence of that Saturday, God was moving.  And He wasn’t just moving; He was battling. For we must remember that we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, “but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers over this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 6:12). There are battles going on in the spiritual realm that we will never see. In the Old Testament, Daniel’s prayer was heard and answered on day one, but it took 21 days of spiritual battle before the angel was able to deliver the vision (see Daniel 10).

In the same way, when Jesus died, He did more than die for our sins; he defeated death. (After all, “the sting of death is sin…”–1 Corinthians 15:56‭-‬57). For Adam’s sin did more than separate us from God; his sin brought death to all mankind.  So while Jesus’ physical death cleansed us from sin, His resurrection from the dead gave us victory over death.   Without Jesus’ physical sacrifice, our sins would still remain; and without His resurrection, this life would be in vain. As Paul reminds us all, “For if the dead are not raised, not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still in your sins.  Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ have perished. If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied. (1 Corinthians 15:16-19).

This means the apparent silence between the death and the resurrection was actually the time it took to win the war–to see Satan fall–to see the enemy defeated.

In the stillness of that Saturday, God was moving!

In the stillness of that Saturday, God won! 

And so we must also remember to celebrate that Saturday. We must realize the journey from death to life often occurs within the stillness of a Saturday. We must remember God was still God while Jesus was in the grave and God is still God when we don’t understand.

Therefore I ask you today, is your life in the silence of that Saturday?  Are you wondering if those desires in your heart will actually come to pass?  Are you questioning if you really heard from God about the direction you are going?  Are your circumstances screaming, “Forget it!  It’s over!”?  Has a stone been rolled over your heart, your hopes, and your future as you thought it should be? Do you feel like everything you trusted has vanished before you?

Well, let me encourage you,  it’s not over!  He is coming!  God has not abandoned you.  God has not abandoned your dreams.  God will never leave you nor forsake you.

Do not grieve the wait, my friend. Do not rush through the Sabbath. Rather, anticipate it!  Be still today knowing He is the God of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  The silence of today is merely the time needed for heaven’s will to become tomorrow’s reality.  The silence of this moment is not the end; it is the beginning.  So keep on keeping on, my friend!  He is coming! He is here! He has risen! He is alive!

.