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🎄✝️ The TRUE gift of Christmas isn't under the tree... it's in an EMPTY BOX!

Catch the full heartwarming moment here: https://zurl.co/7CHQh

Merry Christmas from Marana! May the joy of Christ fill your home today and always. 🎁🙏

#TrueMeaningOfChristmas #JesusIsTheGift #ChristmasEve #ChildrensMessage #EmptyTomb #PastorJustinWixon #AliveInChrist #LutheranChurch #LCMS #MaranaAZ #Christmas2025 #JesusBirthday #FaithForKids

Seeing, Running, Believing

When Resurrection Breaks Open the Heart
A Day in the Life of Jesus

There are moments in the Gospel narratives where the reader is invited not merely to observe but to run alongside the disciples, to feel their breath shorten and their thoughts race as events outrun understanding. John 20:2–9 is one such moment. I find myself returning to it often, especially when faith feels suspended between hope and comprehension. “They have taken the Lord’s body out of the tomb,” Mary Magdalene says, her words trembling with confusion and grief. Nothing in her voice suggests resurrection—only loss. And yet, what unfolds next becomes the turning hinge of history. The resurrection does not begin with triumphant certainty; it begins with bewilderment, movement, and the slow dawning of belief.

John’s account is strikingly personal. He does not hide the human detail that he outran Peter to the tomb, nor does he conceal his hesitation to step inside. When he stoops and sees the linen cloths lying there, something arrests him. The Greek verb blepō suggests careful noticing, not yet comprehension. Peter, characteristically bold, enters the tomb and sees more closely. The grave is not ransacked. The linen wrappings lie undisturbed, and the face cloth—soudarion—is rolled up separately, still shaped as if a head had once rested within it. This is no act of theft. As many commentators have observed, no grave robber would unwrap a body only to leave the linens intact. Raymond Brown notes that the arrangement of the cloths points to an orderly, intentional departure, not a hurried removal. Resurrection leaves behind evidence not of chaos, but of completion.

What grips me here is that belief does not arrive all at once. John tells us plainly, “Then I went in too, and saw, and believed—for until then we had not understood the Scripture that he must rise from the dead.” The verb shifts now to horaō, seeing with perception. Faith begins to awaken, not because every theological question is answered, but because reality presses in with quiet authority. The resurrection does not shout. It invites. Augustine once reflected that the folded cloths were a sign that Jesus left death not as one escaping but as one finishing a task. The work was done. Death had been met and overcome from the inside.

This passage gently teaches us patience with the process of belief, both in ourselves and in others. The stages outlined in the study are not a formula but a pastoral observation drawn from lived experience. Some first hear of the resurrection and dismiss it as impossible, a fabrication born of grief or wishful thinking. Mary herself begins there. Others, like Peter, investigate and are left puzzled. Facts alone do not always produce faith. Still others come to belief only through personal encounter, as Mary does later when Jesus calls her by name. And finally, belief matures into devotion, when Thomas confesses, “My Lord and my God.” Each stage matters. None are wasted. Faith is not rushed into existence; it is formed.

I often remind myself—and those I walk with—that Jesus did not rebuke the disciples for their slowness here. He did not demand instant clarity. Even after the resurrection, understanding unfolded gradually. Luke tells us that Peter returned home “wondering to himself what had happened.” Wonder is not unbelief; it is faith stretching toward comprehension. N.T. Wright has written that resurrection belief in the early church was not born from predisposition but from encounter. No one was expecting this. Something happened that forced a reinterpretation of Scripture, life, and God’s purposes. The disciples did not invent the resurrection; they stumbled into it.

The detail of the linen cloths has always spoken to me pastorally. They suggest that Jesus did not simply leave the tomb; He transformed it. Death’s trappings were left behind, still bearing the shape of what once was, but emptied of power. How often our lives resemble those cloths—old fears, former identities, past sins still lying there, shaped by memory but no longer containing life. Resurrection does not erase the past; it renders it powerless. Paul later echoes this truth when he writes that Christ was “raised for our justification” (Romans 4:25). What once bound us no longer defines us.

I want to say gently what the Gospel itself implies: give faith time to breathe. If you are running toward the tomb with questions, you are not failing. If you stand at the entrance, hesitant to go in, you are not excluded. Even belief that begins with uncertainty is honored when it continues moving toward Jesus. The risen Christ meets people where they are, not where they think they should be. He calls Mary by name. He invites Thomas to touch. He walks with confused disciples on the Emmaus road. Resurrection faith is relational before it is doctrinal.

John’s Gospel tells us that belief followed seeing, but it also tells us that Scripture eventually caught up with experience. The disciples later realized that the Scriptures had said this all along. The Law, the Prophets, and the Psalms had been whispering resurrection long before the tomb was empty. Hosea’s promise that God would raise His people on the third day, Isaiah’s vision of death being swallowed up, and the psalms that speak of God not abandoning His Holy One to decay—all of these threads converge here. Faith matures when experience and Scripture begin to interpret one another.

December 19 sits close to the Church’s Advent rhythm, a season of waiting and expectation. Even as we move toward Christmas, the resurrection quietly shapes our anticipation. The child born in Bethlehem is born with an empty tomb already in view. The linen cloths of John 20 anticipate the swaddling cloths of Luke 2, reminding us that incarnation and resurrection belong together. Jesus enters fully into human vulnerability so that He might lead humanity fully into new life.

As this day unfolds, I invite you to walk gently with Jesus through your own stages of belief. If you are skeptical, keep listening. If you are puzzled, keep looking. If you believe, keep committing your life anew to the risen Lord. Resurrection is not merely an event to affirm; it is a presence to live with. Christ is not only risen; He is present, shaping ordinary days with extraordinary hope.

May the Lord bless you as you seek to walk with Jesus today. May your faith, whatever stage it is in, be met with His patience and grace. And may the quiet evidence of resurrection—seen, remembered, and trusted—steady your heart as you follow Him.

For further reading, you may find this article helpful:
https://www.biblegateway.com/resources/commentaries/IVP-NT/John/Empty-Tomb

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#BeliefAndDiscipleship #EasterTheology #emptyTomb #John20Devotion #resurrectionOfJesus #StagesOfFaith

When the Stone Is Already Rolled Away

A Day in the Life of Jesus

There are moments in the life of Jesus that resist being rushed past, and the resurrection morning is one of them. Mark tells us that when the Sabbath ended, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome went out to purchase spices so they could anoint Jesus’ body. Their actions are tender and deeply human. They are not planning for resurrection; they are preparing for grief. They are doing what love does when hope seems spent. I find myself drawn to these women because they show us that faith often continues in motion even when clarity has not yet arrived. They rise early, they carry their spices, and they walk toward the tomb with unanswered questions echoing between them.

As they walk, their concern is painfully practical: who will roll away the stone? Mark notes that it was very large, a detail that underscores both physical reality and emotional weight. In Scripture, stones often represent finality, boundaries, or obstacles beyond human strength. The women assume, reasonably so, that death still reigns. Yet when they arrive, the stone is already moved. Resurrection often meets us this way—God has been at work ahead of us, solving problems we believed would define the limits of our obedience. The Greek verb Mark uses for “rolled away” implies decisive action, not partial movement. God has done fully what the women feared they could never do themselves.

Inside the tomb, they encounter a young man clothed in white—an unmistakable sign of divine presence. His words are among the most insightful ever spoken into human fear: “You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He is not here; He has risen.” The angel does not deny the crucifixion; he names it. Resurrection does not erase suffering—it transforms it. The Jesus who lives is the same Jesus who died. This matters deeply for discipleship because it assures us that God does not bypass pain to bring life; He passes through it. As N. T. Wright has often noted, the resurrection is not an escape from the world but the launching of God’s new creation within it.

The message continues with remarkable grace: “Go, tell His disciples—and Peter.” That last phrase lingers with pastoral weight. Peter, who denied Jesus, is named explicitly. Resurrection is not only victory over death; it is restoration for the ashamed. John Calvin observed that the resurrection is the “principal article of faith,” because without it, grace would remain abstract. Here, grace becomes personal. Peter’s failure does not exclude him from the future Jesus is unfolding. Neither do ours. The risen Christ goes ahead of His disciples to Galilee, just as He promised. Faith is anchored not merely in surprise but in trustworthiness. Jesus keeps His word even when His followers falter.

This brings us to the reality of the resurrection itself. First, Jesus kept His promise to rise from the dead. That simple truth stabilizes everything else He said. If He was faithful in the face of death, He will be faithful in the details of our lives. Second, the resurrection ensures that the ruler of God’s eternal kingdom is not a memory or an idea, but the living Christ. Christianity does not proclaim principles alone; it proclaims a Person who lives. Third, as Paul argues in 1 Corinthians 15, Christ’s resurrection secures our own. “If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile,” Paul writes, but because He has been raised, death no longer has the final word.

Fourth, the same power that raised Jesus is now at work in us. Resurrection is not only future-oriented; it is present and formative. The Spirit brings life to places in us that have grown morally tired or spiritually numb. Growth, change, and repentance are not self-improvement projects; they are resurrection realities. Finally, the resurrection provides the substance of the church’s witness. We are not simply offering ethical teaching or inspirational stories. We are bearing witness to an event that redefined history. As Michael Green once wrote, “The resurrection was not an appendix to the gospel; it was the gospel.”

Mark ends this account with an unsettling honesty: the women flee trembling and bewildered, too frightened to speak. Resurrection does not immediately produce composure; it produces awe. Faith often begins not with confidence but with holy disorientation. God has done something so new that it takes time to find language for it. If you have ever felt overwhelmed by what God is doing in your life—unsure how to explain it or even fully grasp it—you are in good company. Resurrection invites us to grow into understanding as we walk forward in obedience.

As we consider this day in the life of Jesus, we are reminded that resurrection is not merely something to be believed; it is something to be lived. The stone is already rolled away. The tomb is empty. Jesus goes ahead of us. And like the women, we are invited to keep walking—even when our hands still carry spices meant for a reality that no longer exists.

May the risen Christ meet you today in your early-morning assumptions, your unanswered questions, and your quiet acts of devotion. May you discover that God has already been at work ahead of you, and may the life of Jesus reshape not only what you believe, but how you live.

For further study on the historical and theological significance of the resurrection, see this article from The Gospel Coalition:
https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/why-the-resurrection-matters/

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#ADayInTheLifeOfJesus #emptyTomb #Mark16Devotional #PowerOfTheResurrection #resurrectionOfJesus

Nothing Can Stop the Morning

A Day in the Life of Jesus

There is a strange stillness in Matthew 27:62–66, a silence that feels heavy rather than peaceful. Jesus is dead. His body has been taken down, wrapped, and placed in a tomb carved into limestone—a cave designed to hold what life has abandoned. And yet, on this day in the life of Jesus, the real action does not come from His followers, but from His enemies. I have often found that detail unsettling and instructive. The chief priests and Pharisees, who publicly rejected Jesus, privately remembered His words more clearly than the disciples who loved Him. They went to Pilate not to mourn, but to secure. Not to reflect, but to control. Their fear reveals something important: even in death, Jesus was still perceived as dangerous to the systems built to contain Him.

Matthew is careful with his language. “The next day,” he tells us, placing this moment at the close of the first day of Passover. Liberation is being celebrated across Jerusalem, yet the religious authorities are busy preventing what they fear might become the ultimate exodus. They quote Jesus accurately—“After three days I will rise again”—and their solution is decisive. Seal the tomb. Post guards. Eliminate every possible explanation except resurrection itself. Ironically, in trying to prevent deception, they establish the strongest apologetic foundation for the empty tomb. As D.A. Carson once observed, “The precautions of Jesus’ enemies only served to make the reality of the resurrection more certain.” The very measures intended to suppress hope become witnesses to its inevitability.

I find it revealing that Pilate distances himself at this point. “Use your own guard,” he says. Rome is done with Jesus. Religion, however, is not. The temple police are stationed, the stone is sealed with cord and clay, and official authority is pressed against the mouth of the grave. In the ancient world, a sealed tomb represented finality. The seal was not merely physical but symbolic—it declared that death had won and that the matter was closed. Yet Matthew wants us to see what the Pharisees could not: every precaution they took only narrowed the possibilities. If the tomb is later found empty, no human explanation will suffice. No rock, no seal, no guard can restrain the purposes of God.

What strikes me most as I walk through this passage with you is the contrast between fear and faith. The disciples are silent, scattered, and confused. The religious leaders are active, organized, and anxious. Both groups misunderstand the moment, but in opposite ways. The disciples underestimate the promise. The leaders overestimate their power. Jesus, meanwhile, does nothing at all—at least nothing visible. He rests. The Son of God lies still, not because He is defeated, but because the Father’s timing is perfect. This is one of the hardest lessons of discipleship: learning that God’s apparent inactivity is not absence, and His silence is not surrender.

The study rightly notes that the tomb was likely large enough to walk into, a common burial cave in the limestone hills around Jerusalem. That detail matters because it underscores the physicality of what is about to happen. Christianity does not proclaim a spiritual idea or a symbolic victory. It proclaims a bodily resurrection. When Jesus rises, He does not slip past the guards unnoticed or dissolve into myth. He leaves an empty space where a body once lay. N.T. Wright has written that the resurrection was not the resuscitation of a corpse nor the survival of a soul, but “the beginning of God’s new creation.” The sealed tomb becomes the womb of that new creation, and no human authority can stop its labor.

There is also a deeply pastoral word here for those of us who live between Friday and Sunday, between promise spoken and promise fulfilled. The leaders believed that if they could control the environment, they could control the outcome. We often fall into the same pattern. We seal our fears, post mental guards, and assume that if we manage risk carefully enough, we can prevent loss, disappointment, or change. But the resurrection tells us something far more hopeful and far more disruptive: God’s redemptive work is not subject to our permissions or prevented by our precautions. As the angel will later declare, “He is not here; He has risen, just as He said.” The Greek verb ēgerthē carries the sense of divine action—He was raised. God did what only God could do.

The study concludes with a promise that deserves to be lingered over: because Jesus rose, nothing that happens to us can prevent us from rising again and enjoying eternity with our Lord. That is not sentimental comfort; it is theological certainty. Paul will later echo this truth in 1 Corinthians 15, insisting that if Christ has not been raised, our faith is futile. But because He has been raised, death no longer has the final word. The sealed tomb becomes a signpost, pointing not to defeat but to deliverance. Even when all evidence suggests finality, God is still at work.

As I reflect on this day in the life of Jesus, I am reminded that resurrection power often works quietly before it works visibly. The guards stand watch. The seal remains unbroken. The stone does not yet move. But heaven is not anxious. The Father is not improvising. The Son is not trapped. What looks like stillness is actually certainty. And that truth invites us to trust God not only for eternal life someday, but for faithful endurance today. If no force on earth could keep Jesus in the grave, then no force in your life—fear, grief, failure, or injustice—can ultimately separate you from the life He promises.

May this passage steady your heart as you walk with Jesus today. When circumstances feel sealed and hope feels guarded, remember the tomb. Remember that the greatest obstacle became the greatest evidence. And remember that nothing can stop the morning God has already ordained.

For further reflection on the historical and theological significance of the guarded tomb, see this article from The Gospel Coalition:
https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/the-resurrection-and-the-guarded-tomb/

May the risen Christ bless your desire to walk closely with Him, strengthening your faith in seasons of waiting and anchoring your hope in the certainty of His victory.

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#ChristianHope #emptyTomb #guardsAtTheTomb #lifeOfJesus #Matthew276266 #resurrectionOfJesus

“Where Bones Cannot Speak—But Christ Does”

On Second Thought

There is something unsettling about walking beneath a city and finding yourself surrounded by the bones of its past. The Catacombs of Paris are a somber reminder of human mortality—an underground labyrinth where six million Parisians rest in carefully arranged anonymity. Tourists step down a narrow spiral staircase and into dimly lit corridors lined with femurs and skulls, stacked with symmetry that feels both artistic and tragic. Here, death is not hidden. It is curated, preserved, and displayed.

The tunnels themselves once served a practical purpose—stone quarries that fed the growing city above. But as Parisian cemeteries overflowed in the 18th century, workers exhumed bones and stored them underground. One hundred ninety miles of tunnels twist beneath the capital—twice the length of the metro system. Only one mile is open to the public. Even then, the catacombs have claimed lives. A hospital worker who wandered them alone during the French Revolution vanished into the darkness; his skeleton was found eleven years later.

Many visitors feel unsettled, imagining spirits of the dead haunting the tunnels. Others grow numb to the sights. Nestor Valence, who spent eight years rearranging bones in the catacombs, said, “Touching bones doesn’t bother me anymore. When you start, it’s a bit weird, but it becomes part of the routine.”

Death—even in its most haunting displays—can become ordinary.

But that is where the Christian story breaks sharply from the tunnels beneath Paris. Death may silence the bones of millions, but it could not silence Jesus Christ. And on the morning Mary Magdalene reached the tomb, she found something that no catacomb, no ossuary, no grave in history has ever offered: an empty resting place.

A Tomb Without Bones

John 20 tells the story with breathtaking simplicity. Mary arrives at the tomb expecting to tend to a corpse. Instead, she finds the stone rolled away. Her first instinct, understandably, is confusion. She runs to Peter and John and cries, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid Him!” (John 20:2).

Mary feared the worst—that His body had been stolen. She was not expecting resurrection. As John later admits, “For as yet they did not understand the Scripture, that He must rise again from the dead.” (John 20:9)

This moment stands in total contrast to the catacombs. If Mary had found Jesus’ bones—lifeless, arranged or rearranged, preserved or crumbling—Christianity would have remained a memory of a good teacher, not the living faith we hold today. The early disciples would have stood before a dead Messiah. Their hope would have ended at the same point as every other religious leader or philosopher: a grave.

Instead, Mary found absence. Loss. Mystery. And then—Jesus Himself.

He speaks her name.
He calls her to trust.
He reveals that death has been defeated—decisively and eternally.

The Hope We Keep Forgetting

The catacombs remind us how easily bones settle into routine. Death becomes “normal” to those who work in its shadows. But the resurrection is God’s bold declaration that death will never become normal again. Not for His children. Not for His Church.

We forget this far too often. We treat spiritual life with routine familiarity. We acknowledge Jesus’ resurrection the way tourists observe stacked bones—more with curiosity than with conviction. But the resurrection is not a museum exhibit to contemplate. It is an earthquake that split history. A declaration that not even the darkest tomb holds authority over God’s purposes.

Mary learned that morning what every believer must learn again and again:
Your Savior is not resting.
Your Redeemer is not silent.
Your Hope is not buried.

Jesus’ tomb is empty because Jesus Himself is alive—gloriously, eternally, sovereignly alive.

Bones That Never Needed Rearranging

Think again of Nestor Valence, spending eight years rearranging bones that had “fallen out of place.” Death demands maintenance. Bodies decay. Graves sink. Bones crumble. Time erases.

But not so with Christ.
No rearranging was needed.
No maintenance of memory.
No preservation of remains.

His body was not misplaced—He was risen.
His bones were not resting—He was reigning.
His life was not over—He had just begun His victory.

This is why the message of Easter reverberates through every season of the year, not only Resurrection Sunday. We live in the light of an everlasting truth: Christ’s resurrection is the guarantee of our salvation. If His body had remained in the grave, Paul writes, “your faith is futile” (1 Corinthians 15:17). But because the tomb is empty, our faith is anchored in a living Redeemer, not a dead hero.

Let the Resurrection Reframe Your Faith

Sometimes, our spiritual lives feel like catacombs—dark, winding, silent, filled with old memories or guilt or fear. Perhaps you feel spiritually lost, much like the hospital worker who wandered those tunnels alone, only to be discovered years later.

But the risen Christ does not leave His followers lost. He comes to them—calling them by name, breaking through their confusion, dispelling their fear, lifting them from darkness into light.

When Mary realized her Lord stood before her alive, everything changed. Her fear turned to joy. Her confusion turned to worship. Her sorrow turned to proclamation.

That is the resurrection’s power.
It lifts the human soul from resignation to renewal.
It replaces routine religion with living hope.
It turns spiritual wandering into resurrection clarity.

And it all begins with an empty tomb—a quiet, unassuming, astonishing truth:
“He is not here, for He is risen.”

On Second Thought…

Maybe today is a day to rethink how you see your faith.
To pause and ask:
Have I grown too familiar with the idea of resurrection?
Has Christ’s victory become routine to me?
Do I walk through life as though my Savior is still buried—or as though He walks beside me?

On second thought, perhaps the empty tomb invites us to renew our sense of wonder.
To remember that our faith is anchored in a Savior who shattered the silence of death.
To live with courage, because He lives with authority.
To hope with confidence, because His promises stand unbroken.
To walk with joy, because the One we follow is alive forevermore.

If Christ is risen, then there is no tunnel too dark, no fear too deep, no burden too heavy, and no sin too binding that He cannot break through.

And He will call your name—just as He called Mary’s.

May the risen Christ draw you closer to Himself today, fill your heart with renewed hope, and refresh your spirit with the reminder that death is defeated, and life in Him is eternal.

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#christianHope #emptyTomb #faithReflection #jesusIsAlive #john20Devotional #maryMagdalene #onSecondThought #overcomingSpiritualDarkness #resurrectionOfJesus #spiritualRenewal

🌟 Discover God’s lasting love in this fun children’s sermon! From gum to empty wallets, learn how the empty tomb brings eternal hope. Perfect for kids & families!

Watch now: https://zurl.co/nAT5k

🙏 #ChildrensSermon #Faith #EmptyTomb #GodsWisdom #Christianity #KidsMinistry #JesusChrist

Charles Spurgeon was a particular Baptist preacher in London. He says a grumpy person who hoards wealth and only helps themself, will get no other help. In contrast, a generous believer will be helped by the Lord. He says that as you have done to others, so the Lord will do to you. He says to empty your pockets.

I’m sure I’ve heard more conservatives literally say protect your pockets than empty them.

How can you be considerate and generous?

#christian #praisegod #heisrisen #hope #emptytomb

CHARLES HADDON SPURGEON (1834 - 1892) Faith's Checkbook "Miserly curmudgeons may help themselves, but considerate and generous believers the Lord will help. As you have done unto others, so will the Lord do unto you. Empty your pockets."

WOTM: A #NaturalExplanation For The #EmptyTomb

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r25vLun6nys

#religion #atheist #resurrection #apologetics #jesus #gospels #myths #christianity #evidence

June 8, 2025: Special music from our Sunday service. Thanks to Laura Davis and Candice Simmons @MilkAndTheMeat for their duet of "Thank You Jesus for the Blood Applied" by Charity Gayle.

#NSBC #church #thankyoujesus #CharityGayle #ChristianMusic #God #Lord #Jesus #Christian #christianity #gospel #gospelmusic #Christ #gloryofgod #praisethelord #praisegod #godisgood #savior #heisrisen #hehasrisen #emptygrave #emptytomb #heaven #heavensthrone #cross #hope #freedmysoul #brokemychains

Were There Other #EmptyTomb Stories in #Antiquity?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hP8BHtlbr7Q

#myths #religion #christianity #mythology #god

Explore the Gospel reading on Easter evening! Witness the women's discovery of the empty tomb and the disciples' doubt. Uncover the Jews' deception and the disciples' fear as they lock themselves away. Join us as we delve into this pivotal moment. #EasterGospel #EasterEvening #GospelReading #EmptyTomb #DisciplesDoubt #JewsDeception #UpperRoom #EasterStory #BibleStudy #ChristianFaith #Resurrection

The Woman Who Found Redemption: My Journey from Darkness to Light

6,560 words, 35 minutes read time

I stand before you now, no longer the woman I once was. You may have heard stories about me—whispers in the wind, murmurs in the temple, or perhaps you know me from what has been written about me in the Scriptures. Mary Magdalene, the one from whom Jesus cast out seven demons. But there’s so much more to my story than just that. You might hear this and think you know what happened, but trust me, you don’t. I was not the woman you think I was, nor was I the woman I wanted to be. And, honestly, I’m not sure I ever knew who I truly was, until that moment.

Before the darkness consumed me, before the whispers turned to screams within my mind, I was simply Mary, a woman of Magdala. Our town, nestled on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee, was a vibrant hub. The clatter of commerce filled the air – fishermen mending their nets, merchants haggling over prices of dried fish and grains, the exotic scents of spices brought by traders from distant lands. My family, though not of the highest standing, was comfortable. My father, a respected fisherman, taught me the rhythms of the lake, the way the light danced on its surface, the signs of an approaching storm. My mother, a woman of quiet strength, instilled in me the traditions of our faith, the comforting cadence of the Psalms.

We lived in a modest but sturdy home, the whitewashed walls reflecting the relentless Galilean sun. I remember the scent of baking bread that often wafted from our small kitchen, the rough feel of the fishing nets I sometimes helped mend, the warmth of the Sabbath candles casting long shadows on the walls as my family gathered for prayer. I had dreams, as young women do. Dreams of a loving marriage, of a family of my own, of contributing to the life of our community. I was headstrong, perhaps too much so, with a restless spirit that often chafed against the expected roles for women. I yearned for something more, though I couldn’t articulate what that “more” truly was. Perhaps it was a deeper understanding of the world, a sense of purpose beyond the daily routines.

Then, slowly, insidiously, the darkness began to creep in. It wasn’t a sudden invasion, but a gradual erosion of my inner peace. At first, it was just unsettling thoughts, whispers at the edges of my awareness that I couldn’t quite grasp. They were like shadows flickering in my peripheral vision, always just out of reach when I tried to focus on them. But these whispers grew louder, more insistent, morphing into voices that were not my own. They mocked, they accused, they filled my mind with chaos and confusion.

It felt as though something alien had taken root within me, twisting my thoughts, turning my desires into something ugly and uncontrollable. My own will seemed to weaken, replaced by an inner turmoil that dictated my actions. I would lash out in anger at those I loved, say cruel things I didn’t mean, driven by a force I couldn’t comprehend. My moods swung wildly, from moments of hollow gaiety to deep, crushing despair. I was a prisoner within my own mind, a puppet dancing to the strings of these unseen tormentors.

The societal stigma was a heavy burden. In our close-knit community, whispers spread like wildfire. I became the subject of hushed conversations, pointed fingers, and averted gazes. People spoke of curses, of divine punishment, of a soul tainted by sin. The women in the marketplace would draw their children away as I passed. The men would offer pitying glances mixed with fear. I was an outcast, labeled as “unclean,” someone to be avoided. The isolation was agonizing, a constant reminder of my brokenness. Even within my own family, though they tried to be supportive, I could see the fear and the strain in their eyes. They didn’t understand what was happening to me, and their helplessness only amplified my own despair.

Desperate for relief, I sought out every avenue I could find. I visited the local healers, their remedies of herbs and poultices offering no solace. I consulted the village elders, their prayers and pronouncements feeling hollow and empty. I even turned to those rumored to practice magic, clutching at amulets and chanting incantations, but the darkness within remained unmoved. My wealth, inherited from my father, became a tool in this desperate search, but it bought me nothing but false hope and fleeting promises. The more I sought a cure, the more entrenched the torment seemed to become. It was a vicious cycle, my desperation only feeding the power of the darkness that held me captive.

Looking back, I can see the threads of my own making in this tapestry of suffering. My ambition, that yearning for something more, had at times led me down paths that were not wholesome. I had sought validation in fleeting pleasures, in the approval of those whose values were shallow. There was a pride within me, a belief that I could navigate life on my own terms, without truly seeking the guidance of God or the wisdom of those who walked in His light. This self-reliance, this desire to control my own destiny, had perhaps created an opening for the darkness to enter. It wasn’t just the external forces; it was the internal vulnerabilities, the unacknowledged emptiness that the demons seemed to exploit.

Then, He came. Jesus. The memory of that first encounter is etched into my soul. He walked into Magdala, not with the pomp and circumstance of a visiting dignitary, but with a quiet authority that drew the eye and stilled the restless energy of the town. There was a light about Him, an aura of peace and compassion that was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. His eyes, when they met mine, held no judgment, only a profound understanding. It was as if He saw past the broken exterior, past the torment that twisted my features, and saw the wounded soul within.

I don’t know how He knew the depths of my affliction, but He did. Perhaps it was the way I flinched from the touch of others, the frantic energy that radiated from me, or the haunted look in my eyes. But He looked at me, truly looked at me, and in that gaze, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t experienced in years – a moment of stillness, a break in the relentless storm within.

He spoke, His voice calm and resonant, cutting through the cacophony in my mind. He didn’t shout, didn’t recoil. He simply spoke words of authority, words that seemed to vibrate with a power that was not of this world. And as He spoke, I felt a wrenching within me, a violent shaking as the demons that had held me captive for so long began to resist. It was a terrifying and yet liberating sensation. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt a glimmer of control returning.

One by one, He cast them out. I can’t describe the sensation fully – it was like a physical expulsion, a tearing away of something dark and clinging. With each departing spirit, a wave of relief washed over me, a lightening of the oppressive weight that had burdened me for so long. The voices that had tormented me fell silent. The chaos within began to subside, replaced by a fragile but growing sense of peace. By the time He was finished, I felt… empty, but in a way that was clean, pure. The darkness was gone, and in its place was a void that, for the first time, felt like it could be filled with something good.

Was I deserving of such grace? Absolutely not. In my darkest moments, I had felt utterly worthless, a vessel of corruption. Why would this man, this holy man, waste His time and power on someone as broken as me? It defied all logic, all societal expectations. But that was the essence of His being, wasn’t it? He didn’t come for the righteous, but for the sinners. He didn’t offer healing based on merit, but on boundless compassion. He saw not what I was, but what I could be. His grace was a gift freely given, a light shining into the deepest recesses of my despair.

When the healing was complete, a profound shift occurred within me. The emptiness that remained was not the void of torment, but a space yearning to be filled with the source of that healing. I knew I could not return to my former life. The allure of fleeting pleasures had vanished, replaced by a deep understanding of their emptiness. The hole in my heart, the one I had tried to fill with wealth and influence, now pointed towards Him. He was the answer, the missing piece I had unknowingly been searching for all along.

Without hesitation, I followed Him. There was no grand deliberation, no weighing of pros and cons. It was an instinctive pull, a recognition of the only true north in my suddenly clear sky. I didn’t question His path, His teachings. I simply went where He went, listened to His words, and absorbed the light that radiated from Him. He was the living water to my parched soul, the bread of life to my starving spirit.

For those who have never known the suffocating grip of inner darkness, it is impossible to convey the depth of my gratitude. It was as if He had reached into the abyss and pulled me back into the light. I wasn’t just freed from the demons; I was freed from the self I had become under their influence. I was given a second chance, a clean slate upon which to write a new story. And that story, I knew, would be His.

I became one of His devoted followers, traveling with Him and the others through the dusty roads and bustling towns of Galilee. I witnessed miracles that defied human understanding – the blind seeing, the lame walking, the lepers cleansed. I saw the compassion in His eyes as He healed the sick and the authority in His voice as He commanded evil spirits to depart. But more than the miracles, it was the way He treated people, the way He saw the unseen, the marginalized, the outcasts, that truly amazed me. He spoke to women with respect and dignity, something unheard of in those times. He ate with tax collectors and sinners, offering them a path to redemption. He saw the inherent worth in every soul, regardless of their past or their societal standing.

He allowed us, the women who followed Him, to be a part of His ministry in ways that were revolutionary. We provided for His needs and the needs of His disciples out of our own resources. We listened to His teachings, asked questions, and learned alongside the men. He never looked down on me because of my past. He never reminded me of the darkness that had once consumed me. He accepted me fully, loved me unconditionally, and trusted me to understand and share His message.

I remember the gentle wisdom of His parables – the sower scattering seeds, the lost sheep being found, the prodigal son returning home. These stories, seemingly simple, held profound truths about God’s love, His forgiveness, and the nature of His kingdom. They resonated deeply within me, a soul that had felt lost and now was found. He taught us to love our enemies, to forgive those who wronged us, to seek the kingdom of God above all else. These teachings were a balm to my wounded spirit, guiding me towards a way of living that was rooted in love and compassion.

My relationship with the other disciples and the women who followed Jesus was a tapestry woven with threads of shared experience and growing faith. With Peter, James, and John, there was a sense of awe and respect for their closeness to Jesus, their willingness to leave everything to follow Him. Sometimes, there were misunderstandings, moments when their earthly concerns clashed with Jesus’ spiritual focus, but there was always a core of devotion that bound them together.

The women – Joanna, Susanna, Salome, and others – became my sisters in faith. We shared a unique bond, having experienced the societal constraints placed upon us and finding liberation in Jesus’ presence. We supported each other, shared our burdens, and encouraged one another in our newfound faith. We often discussed His teachings amongst ourselves, trying to grasp the deeper meanings and how they applied to our lives. There was a quiet strength in our collective devotion, a silent understanding of the transformative power of His love. Mary, His mother, held a special place among us, her quiet dignity and unwavering faith a constant source of inspiration. I often sought her out, finding solace in her gentle wisdom and the shared experience of loving Jesus.

Then came the day the shadows gathered, the day He was betrayed. The memory of the soldiers’ torches cutting through the night, the harsh clang of their armor, still sends a shiver down my spine. The fear that gripped us was palpable, a suffocating blanket of dread. They took Him away, the one who had brought light into my darkness, the one who had given me a life worth living. I stood with the other women, a silent, horrified witness to His arrest. We wanted to intervene, to fight, to somehow protect Him, but we were powerless against the might of the Roman Empire and the fury of the Sanhedrin. All we could do was watch as they led Him away, our hearts heavy with foreboding.

The day they crucified Him was the day the world seemed to tilt on its axis. We followed, a small, heartbroken group, as He was forced to carry the heavy cross through the jeering crowds. We saw His face, bruised and bloodied, yet still bearing a trace of that familiar compassion. We stood at the foot of the cross, our tears mingling with the dust and the blood. We watched Him suffer, each nail driven into His flesh a fresh wound in our own hearts. The weight of our helplessness was crushing. We knew He was innocent, yet we could do nothing but bear witness to His agonizing death. It felt as though all the hope He had ignited within us was being extinguished with each labored breath He took.

The joy of the Passover meal we had shared with Him just days before, the sense of anticipation and fellowship, now seemed like a distant, almost dreamlike memory. The night of His arrest had shattered our understanding of everything. The men, the strong, bold disciples who had pledged their loyalty, scattered in fear. Peter, the rock, the one He had entrusted with the keys to the kingdom, denied even knowing Him, not once, but three times. I saw him later, his face etched with a grief that mirrored our own, the weight of his betrayal a visible burden. We were all afraid, huddled together in the upper room, the doors bolted against the unknown dangers that lurked outside. The one who had been our protector, our guide, was gone, and we feared we would be next.

In that fear, the world felt cold and empty. Words of comfort were hollow, prayers felt weak and unanswered. All I could do was weep, a deep, guttural sorrow that seemed to have no end. The days between His death and the dawn of the resurrection felt like an eternity, a bleak and desolate landscape of grief. How could He be gone? How could the one who had shown us the very essence of love and grace be taken away in such a brutal manner? The questions swirled in my mind, unanswered, fueling my despair. The hope He had planted within me felt like a fragile seedling buried under a mountain of sorrow.

His teachings, once so vibrant and life-giving, now echoed in my memory with a painful irony. “I am the resurrection and the life,” He had said. But how could that be true when death had so decisively claimed Him? Without His physical presence, we felt lost, adrift in a sea of uncertainty. All I could think of were His final moments, His pain, the injustice of it all. I didn’t know how we could possibly go on without Him. The future stretched before us, a vast and terrifying unknown.

The morning of His execution, the sky was a bruised and angry purple. I watched, with a horrified fascination, as they led Him to Golgotha, the place of the skull. The jeers of the crowd, the callous indifference of the Roman soldiers, the sheer brutality of the act – it was a scene that will forever be seared into my memory. They offered Him wine mixed with gall, a cruel mockery of comfort, which He refused. Then, the unthinkable happened. They nailed His hands and feet to the rough wood of the cross, the sickening thud of the hammer blows echoing in the stunned silence. I saw them lift Him up, His body suspended between heaven and earth, a testament to the cruelty of humanity and the depth of His sacrifice. My heart shattered into a million pieces. He was innocent, yet He suffered the most agonizing death imaginable. He was dying for us, bearing the weight of our sins, our darkness.

I stood at the foot of the cross, rooted to the spot by a grief so profound it felt physical. His suffering was unbearable to witness, yet I couldn’t tear my eyes away. And then, amidst His torment, He spoke His first words from the cross, a cry that tore through the heavy air: “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” His native Aramaic, spoken in such raw anguish, pierced the very heavens. In that moment, I felt a sliver of His abandonment, not by us, His followers, but by His Father. It was a depth of loneliness I could scarcely comprehend.

A stunned silence fell over the crowd as the sky began to darken, a premature twilight descending upon the land. The earth itself seemed to mourn, a low rumble vibrating beneath our feet. Then, His voice, though weak, still carried a note of divine authority: “I thirst.” It wasn’t just a physical thirst for water, I knew. It was a deeper longing for the completion of His mission, the fulfillment of the sacrifice He was making. He had taken upon Himself the sins of the world, and in that moment, He bore the full weight of that burden.

Then, with a final, deliberate act, He uttered the words that would forever echo in eternity: “Tetelestai – It is finished.” The work was done. The debt was paid. The barrier between God and humanity, erected by our sin, was broken. It was as though the universe itself held its breath, waiting for that moment to pass into the annals of time.

But even in those final pronouncements, His love and obedience shone through. With His last breath, He whispered, “Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.” And then, He was gone. The light that had illuminated our world was extinguished. I couldn’t believe it. He was truly gone.

The earth convulsed beneath our feet, a violent tremor that shook the very foundations of our world. And then, a sight that defied understanding: the curtain of the temple, the massive veil that separated the Holy of Holies from the outer court, was torn in two, from top to bottom. It was a symbolic act, a divine tearing away of the barrier that had separated God from His people. His presence was no longer confined to a sacred space; His Spirit was now free to dwell among us.

And then, the graves opened, and the dead rose. It was a terrifying and awe-inspiring sight, a glimpse into the power of His death, a foreshadowing of the ultimate victory over the grave. But in the immediate aftermath, the finality of His death was overwhelming. He, who was life …itself, was gone.

Yet, even in the depths of my inconsolable grief, a tiny spark of hope flickered within me, fueled by His own words, His promises. “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me will live, even though he dies.” But in that moment, shrouded in darkness and despair, it felt impossible to grasp. How could the one who had given me life now be dead?

The morning of the third day dawned with a heavy, oppressive stillness. Driven by a desperate need to honor His body, to perform the last rites of burial, I made my way to the tomb. The other women, their faces pale and drawn with grief, accompanied me. As we walked through the silent streets, a new fear began to take root. The tomb was guarded. Roman soldiers, their expressions stern and unyielding, stood watch. Would they even allow us near? Would they desecrate His memory further? And the stone… the massive stone that sealed the entrance. How could we, a small group of grieving women, ever move it? These anxieties gnawed at my heart, but the need to be near Him, even in death, was stronger than any fear.

When we arrived, our breath caught in our throats. The stone was rolled away. It defied all logic, all expectation. My mind reeled, a cold wave of panic washing over me. Had someone stolen His body? Had they subjected it to further indignity? I stood there, paralyzed by a mixture of fear and confusion. I peered into the dark recess of the tomb, and it was empty. The linen cloths, neatly folded, lay where His body should have been. It was a sight that made no sense, deepening the mystery and the dread.

But then… I turned, and there He was. Standing just a short distance away, bathed in the soft light of the early morning sun. At first, I didn’t recognize Him fully. Perhaps it was the tears blurring my vision, or the shock that had numbed my senses. I thought He was the gardener, the one who tended the grounds around the tomb. My voice, thick with unshed tears, trembled as I asked, “Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where you have put Him, and I will get Him.” My only thought was to find His body, to give Him the respect He deserved.

And then, He spoke my name. Just one word, but it resonated through me like a lightning strike: “Mary.” It was His voice. The familiar cadence, the gentle inflection, the love that echoed in that single syllable. In that instant, the scales fell from my eyes. The gardener vanished, replaced by the radiant figure of my Lord. My heart leaped within me, a joy so profound it was almost unbearable. “Rabboni!” I cried out, my Aramaic bursting forth in a torrent of love and recognition. I reached out to Him, wanting to hold Him, to cling to the reality of His presence.

But He held back, a gentle sadness in His eyes. “Do not cling to Me,” He said softly, “for I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to My brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to My Father and your Father, to My God and your God.’” His words were both a gentle rebuke and a momentous commission. He was alive, but His time with us in this earthly form was not yet fully restored. He had a greater purpose, a return to the Father. And He entrusted me, the woman who had been healed from darkness, the one who had witnessed His death, to be the first messenger of His glorious resurrection.

I stood there, trembling with awe and disbelief, the weight of His words settling upon me. He was alive! Death had not held Him. The darkness had been conquered. The promise He had made had come true. The despair that had clung to me for days vanished, replaced by an unshakeable hope. The resurrection wasn’t just about Him returning to life; it was about the promise of new life for all who believed in Him.

I ran, my feet barely touching the ground, to find Peter and John, the other disciples who were closest to Him. “I have seen the Lord!” I exclaimed, my voice filled with a joy that could no longer be contained. “He is alive!” I poured out the story of my encounter, the empty tomb, the figure I had mistaken for the gardener, and the sound of His voice calling my name.

They were initially skeptical, their grief still a heavy shroud upon their hearts. Peter and John, driven by a mixture of disbelief and a flicker of hope, rushed to the tomb themselves. I followed, my heart pounding with anticipation. I watched as John, being the younger and swifter, reached the tomb first but hesitated at the entrance. Peter, ever impetuous, went straight inside. They found the linen cloths lying there, just as I had described, and the burial shroud folded neatly by itself. The sight stirred something within them, a dawning realization that this was no ordinary grave robbery.

Peter and John left soon after, still wrestling with the implications of what they had seen. But I couldn’t tear myself away from that sacred place. I stood outside the tomb, tears of joy and wonder streaming down my face. And then, He appeared again, His presence radiating peace.

“Woman, why are you weeping?” He asked gently.

Still caught in the wonder of it all, I replied, “Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where you have put Him, and I will get Him.”

Again, He spoke my name, “Mary.” And this time, there was no mistaking Him. It was truly Him, alive and whole.

“Rabboni!” I cried again, reaching out to embrace Him.

“Do not cling to Me,” He repeated, His voice filled with tenderness, “for I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to My brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to My Father and your Father, to My God and your God.’” He entrusted me, a woman, a former outcast, to be the primary witness to His resurrection, a testament to His radical love and the overturning of societal norms.

I went again to find the disciples, my heart overflowing with the incredible news. This time, my conviction was unwavering, my joy infectious. The despair that had clung to us in the days following His crucifixion was shattered by the glorious reality of His resurrection. It wasn’t just a miracle; it was the ultimate victory over death, a promise of eternal life for all who believed.

His resurrection had not only restored my Lord to life; it had restored my soul. The darkness that had defined me was gone, replaced by the radiant light of His love and the unshakeable hope of eternal life. I didn’t just follow Him because I had been healed. I followed Him because I had witnessed the impossible, because I had seen death itself defeated. I had seen love and mercy triumph over the greatest evil, and I knew then that my life would forever be dedicated to sharing this truth.

I wasn’t just a witness to His resurrection; I was reborn through it. The old Mary, the tormented and lost woman of Magdala, had died with Him on that cross. The Mary who stood before the empty tomb, who heard His voice call her name, was a new creation, filled with purpose and an unyielding faith. Jesus had pulled me from the deepest darkness, and in His victory over death, He showed me that no sin was too great, no burden too heavy for His love to conquer.

The miracle of His resurrection was not just a singular event; it held a profound and universal meaning. He had shown us that death was not the end, that there was hope beyond the grave. His victory was not only for Himself but for all of humanity, for the broken, the lost, the ones who had stumbled and fallen, just like me. In that moment, I knew that I would never be the same again. Neither would the world.

But even after His resurrection, my journey didn’t end. It wasn’t just about basking in the joy of that first encounter; it was about continuing to live in the light of what He had done for me. As the days passed, I remained among His followers, just as He had instructed us. We gathered together, sharing stories of His appearances, our hearts filled with a mixture of joy and anticipation. We waited, prayed, and hoped for the promise of the Holy Spirit, just as Jesus had told us before He ascended to the Father. There was a palpable sense of something divine about to happen, a new chapter unfolding that we could not yet fully comprehend.

And when Pentecost came, the promise was fulfilled in a way that exceeded all our expectations. We were gathered in the upper room, perhaps the same room where we had shared that last Passover meal with Him, when suddenly, there was a sound like a rushing wind, and tongues of fire appeared, resting on each of us. The Holy Spirit filled us in a way that was both overwhelming and transformative. It was as though a divine power surged through us, igniting a fire within our souls. We began to speak in other tongues, languages we had never learned, yet we could communicate the wonders of God.

Pentecost wasn’t just a moment of personal transformation; it was the birth of the Church, the beginning of a movement that would change the world forever. I could feel the Spirit’s presence in me and around me, urging us to go beyond the walls of our homes, to step out and preach the gospel to all who would listen. No longer would we be waiting in the shadows for Him to return; now, we were called to carry His message of love, redemption, and eternal life to every corner of the earth. I had experienced Jesus’ resurrection and His transformative power in my life, but now I experienced the full force of His Spirit, uniting us all in a shared purpose and mission. It was as if He had not left us alone at all; He had empowered us to do greater things than we could have ever imagined.

I traveled, often in the company of those who had been closest to Jesus—those who had shared the pain of His crucifixion and the joy of His resurrection. Alongside me was John, whom Jesus had called His beloved disciple, a man whose love for the Lord was as deep and unwavering as the sea. And Mary, His mother, her quiet strength and profound understanding a constant source of comfort and wisdom. It was a bond that transcended everything we had known before—an unspoken commitment to share the love of Jesus and to keep His message alive. Together, we had witnessed the greatest sorrow and the greatest joy, and now, we shared a common purpose. The grief of losing Him on the cross was still a scar upon our hearts, but in the radiant light of His resurrection, the hope He had given us now became our fuel, our driving force. We had been entrusted with a sacred mission—to spread His gospel, to heal the sick in His name, to preach salvation to the lost, and to teach others to live in His love.

We no longer just mourned the loss of the man we had loved; we celebrated His glorious victory over death. We knew that He had come to give us life, abundant and eternal life that could never be taken away, and through the power of the Holy Spirit dwelling within us, we could now offer that same life-giving message to others. I could see the Spirit working in us and through us, giving us a courage and strength that was not our own, enabling us to face the challenges and opposition that inevitably arose. And though the road was often difficult, the tangible presence of the Holy Spirit was undeniable, a constant reminder that we were not alone.

The world around us had begun to change, slowly but surely, touched by the ripples of the resurrection and the power of the Holy Spirit. And we, His followers, were irrevocably changed. John, with his powerful words and unwavering faith, Mary, with her quiet strength and profound understanding, and I—we were all transformed by our encounter with Jesus and the indwelling Spirit. We were now part of something far greater than ourselves, a movement of love and redemption that was beginning to take root and spread throughout the land. We knew that what we were doing was not just about preserving a memory; it was about ushering in the Kingdom of God and sharing the life-altering message of Jesus Christ with a world desperately in need of hope.

Together, we faced many trials, enduring persecution and misunderstanding, but we also experienced countless moments of divine intervention, miraculous healings, and profound encounters with those whose lives were touched by the message we carried. And though it often felt humbling and even impossible to comprehend, every day, I felt myself becoming more like Him, reflecting His love and compassion in my own actions and words. Through the continuous work of the Holy Spirit within me, I was not only following Jesus but striving to embody His teachings in my heart, mind, and spirit. The words He had spoken to us before His death—about loving others as He had loved us, forgiving those who trespassed against us, and making disciples of all nations—took on a new and urgent meaning. With the Holy Spirit as our guide and empowerer, we knew we were fulfilling His command, one soul at a time.

But we understood that our journey wasn’t solely about proclaiming the message to the far corners of the earth. It was equally about cultivating the inner life, about becoming the people He had called us to be: loving, faithful, and unyielding in our conviction. The Holy Spirit had ignited a fire within us, a fervent desire to see His Kingdom come to fruition in our lifetimes, and we could no longer remain silent. We had personally experienced His boundless love, His transformative grace, and His glorious resurrection, and now we were compelled to share that life-changing truth with everyone we encountered.

I walked often in the company of John, his steadfast presence a constant source of strength. He was the disciple who had leaned on Jesus’ breast at the last supper, the one whom Jesus had entrusted with the care of His mother, Mary. John’s love for Jesus was a deep and abiding wellspring, a love that did not waver even in the face of the world’s harshest opposition. He continued to proclaim the truth of the gospel with unwavering boldness, even when it cost him dearly. And beside him, Mary, the mother of Jesus, was a pillar of quiet strength and profound wisdom. She had already endured the unimaginable pain of watching her son suffer and die, but she had also experienced the unique and deeply personal joy of His resurrection. Together, we were united in our purpose, bound by our shared love for Jesus and empowered by the Holy Spirit to press onward in His name.

Now, our lives were not simply about following the memory of Jesus; they were about actively living out His teachings, embodying His love, and extending His grace to a world still shrouded in darkness. And though we missed His physical presence with an ache that never fully subsided, the Holy Spirit was with us in a way that we had never imagined, a constant companion and guide. It was as though He had never truly left us at all; His presence was more profound, more tangible in the Spirit than it had ever been in the flesh. And that was the moment everything truly shifted for me—when I realized that Jesus had not only saved me from my past but had also given us the greatest gift of all: His Spirit, which would empower us to do even greater things than He had done.

As for me, I never sought earthly recognition or accolades. My deepest desire was to be a faithful servant of Christ, a living testament to His transformative power. I knew that my story, the story of a woman rescued from darkness and brought into His marvelous light, had a purpose within His grand narrative, and that was more than enough. I had been healed by Him, loved by Him, and entrusted with the sacred task of sharing His message with the world. That was the only honor I ever needed.

Now, I stand before you, not as a woman lost and broken, defined by her past afflictions, but as a woman redeemed, transformed by the boundless grace of God. He took my darkness, my mistakes, my suffering, and through His death and resurrection, He turned it into a story of hope and healing. If you can hear my words today, I want you to know that you, too, can experience that same healing, that same liberation. You, too, can be freed from whatever binds you, whatever darkness consumes you, just as I was. Jesus didn’t come to save the perfect, the righteous. He came to seek and save the lost, the broken, the ones who know their desperate need for a Savior. And if you are willing to open your heart and accept Him into your life, He will change everything.

I may not be the woman I once was, the woman defined by seven demons and a shadowed past. But I am also not the woman I once thought I could be, striving for a fleeting sense of worth in a world that offered only emptiness. I am His. I am a child of God, redeemed by His grace, empowered by His Spirit, and called to share His love. And that, my friends, is the only identity that truly matters, the only identity that will last for eternity.

D. Bryan King

Sources

Disclaimer:

The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.

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Photo: Sheela-na-gig, ancient symbol of life, death, and renewal, in Herefordshire, U.K. church. Wikimedia.

The #EmptyTomb is a symbol of creativity & liberation in the face of the absurdity & malignancy of evil...moreover, not a closed womb or tomb (narcissistic return to womb-security & fetishness w/ self). B/c it is open & someone has exited, it is a tomb/circle in motion: a spiral. https://dailymeditationswithmatthewfox.org/2025/04/23/retrieving-the-empty-tomb/

The Empty Tomb of... Kabir!
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✝️ The tomb is empty. The King is alive.
He was betrayed, beaten, crucified… and yet, on the third day, the stone was rolled away.
Why do you seek the living among the dead?
He is not here—He has risen.
🌅 Happy Easter.

#Easter #HeIsRisen #EmptyTomb