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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.