My birthday was two days after we received our daughter’s diagnosis.
The day after my birthday was Easter. It came early that year. The day we celebrate the resurrection of our Savior Jesus who defeated death once and for all. The day that magnifies everything the word hope envelops. Hope beyond the grave, hope beyond our buried dreams; hope that rises when all seems lost. And not just an arbitrary, theoretical hope, but also the hope that lives in the person of Jesus Christ. The Hope that is The Anchor for our soul.
Romans 8:11 says that “if the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit who dwells in you.”
Easter had never held such power as it did this time. For I needed to not only grasp the hope of the death and resurrection of my Savior more fully, but also the reality that His resurrection power could still give life to these broken places of my heart. I sat alongside the five hundred men and women in the sanctuary of our church the morning of Easter. And I was overwhelmed by the goodness of God to send His only Son to die on the cross, the worst suffering imaginable, so I could have life.
How could I question the depth and width of His goodness and love?
Yet I questioned it. I wondered in the finiteness of my mind how this was His goodness and love to us?
Intellectually I understood that in some strange way extending far beyond the wisdom of man, this was in fact His goodness and love to us. But I didn’t for the life of me understand it. I desperately wanted to wrap my mind around the goodness of God shrouded now in so much mystery to me.
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