Around two thousand years ago on this day, our Savior died on a cross. I can’t imagine how much pain Jesus went through; I don’t even want to imagine how much it broke God’s heart to watch his son die; and I certainly never want anything like that to happen to me.
But to have life, there must first be death. To have healing, there must first be pain. Our God, perfect and glorious as he is, was willing to come down to earth as a human being with the knowledge that he would die on the cross and bear every single one of our sins. I’ve never loved anyone that much, but he does and always will.
My family went to my church’s Good Friday service and as we were driving there, the sun was setting on the horizon. The sky was gorgeous–clouds filled the area where the sun was descending and turned hues of blue, purple, and pink, and the sun sank into them and slowly faded from view. All I could think about while I was watching the sun disappear was how awful that fateful Friday must have been for everyone present. I can picture Mary wailing for her son; I can almost watch doubt fill the disciples as they saw the man they had called Lord and Teacher die a criminal’s death; and I can practically feel the terror everyone must have felt as the world went dark, the curtain was torn down the middle by an unseen force, and a fierce earthquake shook the earth as Jesus took his last breath.
But it wasn’t over. Sunday was coming.

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