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I am re-posting this for those who may need to read it again, and for those who might not have seen it. It bears repeating, time and again.
The Resurrection is real. Jesus is real. He is not the figment of anyone’s imagination. I know. I’ve seen him.
It happened on Palm Sunday. It was one of those lazy mornings. I sat at the kitchen table enjoying my coffee, and a rare moment of quiet. Everyone else was asleep, even the dog and our three cats. Peace.
Rather than disrupt it, I decided not to rouse everyone for church. Instead, I would read the scripture of the Passion and meditate.
This time, the often-read words took on a personal meaning. God didn’t die for faceless mankind. He died for me. For my sins. In my place. Willingly. I laid my head on the table and wept.