Never Forget

I tried to come up with something special for this day. A story, some kind of poem, or even some new song lyrics. I just wasn’t able to pen anything fresh. I can usually tell after a few minutes of staring at the blank screen whether or not it’s going to happen. Well, it didn’t. I ended up with nothing but memories.

9/11 was one of those events where you remember every single thing about that day. Where you were. What you ate for breakfast. Possibly even what you were wearing and every single detail of each conversation you had with people. Every moment is seared into your brain. For me, it was the same way when the space shuttle Challenger exploded. I was in school when one of our teachers ran in with the devastating news.

These are events that alter history. They tear through the fabric of time and leave scars that may never heal. They create stories that our children and grandchildren will study one day in a classroom.

It was a Tuesday morning. We lived in Corvallis, OR, and I worked for Pepsi. The previous day, I had just started training to be a route driver. I climbed out of bed after having a very strange experience during the night. Around 2 AM, I awoke with a churning inside my stomach like none I have never experienced before or since. Dread washed over me in waves. All I could think to do was pray. I prayed for everyone that came to mind. My family, my friends, my co-workers. I didn’t even know what to pray. I just asked God for protection over them all.

My initial thought was that something horrible was going to happen in the small town I grew up in, Franklin NC. When I turned on the radio in my car that gloomy morning, I knew why I had been praying.

I rushed back into our apartment and flipped on the television. A scene of horror greeted me, and I sank into a chair. It was one of the most horrific events I had ever witnessed in my lifetime.

I didn’t want to be late for work, so I tore myself away from the news and headed on in. Obviously, it was the focal point of all conversation that morning. That early, most of the people I worked with weren’t exactly lively, but that day was so different. There was a sadness that clouded the Pepsi plant. You could see it in each face and hear it in every voice.

We made sure the truck was loaded and pulled out to start a day full of deliveries. We listened to the radio the entire time. We couldn’t speak when they announced the first tower was crumbling. I wanted to rush home and hold my wife and little girl when they described the second one falling.

We worked through our route in a state of numbness. I remember one stop was a local newspaper. We walked in and started toward the back where the vending machines were located. I noticed that everyone looked at us strangely. Even Sean, the guy training me, said something about it once we reached the lunchroom. While we were determining what they needed as far as product was concerned, one of the paper employees walked in. He said they were all on edge and just wanted to make sure we were truly from Pepsi.

Everywhere we went that day, people were frightened. That, and deeply moved by the grief and tragedy befalling our nation. It’s something you wish could be wiped clean from the deep shadows of our memory, but yet, it’s also something we don’t want to forget. We could never forget.

I’m not into politics at all. I’m not pro-government. I’m not anti-government. I’ve watched countless videos attempting to prove that 9/11 was an “inside” job. None of that matters to me. What does is the fact that people lost sons and daughters that day. They lost parents and cousins. Brothers and sisters. Best friends. Grandparents. Uncles. Aunts. The list goes on and on. Brave men and women rushed headlong into the smoke and debris desperately trying to find survivors. I’ve watched so many documentaries over the years, and I’m left wrecked at such loss and devastation.

It’s time such as this, I fall to my knees and thank God for the many blessings in my life. My wife. My two children. My mom. My job. It’s too easy in this life to gripe and complain about everything. The Bible actually calls complaining a sin. I make it a point each morning to wake up conversing with my Father, thanking Him for another opportunity to represent Him on this earth. Time is short, folks. We have no idea when Jesus is coming back. We have to live as if it could be at any moment. Take a few moments today to just stop, get into a quiet place, and talk with God.

Today marks 13 years since the events of 9/11/2001. It’s hard to believe. Wherever you are right now, hug someone close to you. Tell them how much you love them. Never forget that our lives are but a vapor.

Here today and gone tomorrow.

Will the words ever stop?

Sometimes I sit at my computer and stare at a blank screen. It goes on for what feels like hours, but in reality, may only be a few moments.

I wonder if every writer feels the same way.

Will the words ever stop?

Will I sit here one day and have absolutely nothing to write about?

I believe as long as I’m alive, there will always be something to write about. Jesus took on human form and then died for me on a cross. That in itself should keep me going for nearly my entire life. Even if I can write nothing more than about being thankful for all He has done for me, that’s enough.

For a long time, I’ve had this passion for writing. I always thought I most enjoyed writing fiction, but over the last several months, I’ve discovered that desire has changed. I’ve attempted a couple different starts at fiction novels, but I keep coming back to the second collection of Bible stories I’m working on.

Earlier this year, I published I Was There. My first collection of ten Bible stories written from a first person perspective. I absolutely enjoyed writing it. In all truthfulness, it’s almost like writing fiction, because there are so many details to these stories that were not included in the Scriptures. But, even now as I read back through some of them, I am just constantly amazed at the love of Christ. It gets me excited to write stories about Him.

As Christians, we sing, pray, and talk about Jesus being our role model. We want to pattern our lives after Him.

But, do we really and truly mean that? It’s easy to lift our hands on a Sunday morning and worship with hundreds of other people, but are we willing to take the most important step of all and die to ourselves? If we haven’t killed off our flesh, it’s not possible to follow after Christ. He was love personified. 0% flesh.

He said to follow Him, so I know it’s possible for us to live as He did. To walk in righteousness. To completely put aside our self, and live in love. That’s what strikes people as being different from anything they have ever seen. The world has heard it all before. They are crying out to SEE it.

If we’re too busy boycotting everything, or picketing somewhere, how will the world know us by our love? They will know us more for what we stand against than Who we stand for.

Yes, we are to stand up for what we believe in. I get that, but it can be done from a motivation of love, and not self. If we love others as Jesus did, we won’t have to try and convince people of anything. They can’t walk away from a true love encounter unchanged. Besides, it’s not our job to “change” them or prove anything. We plant the seeds, sometimes we get the opportunity to water the seeds, and the Holy Spirit takes it from there. Sometimes, we get to be in on the fruition of seeds that someone else planted. It’s awesome and amazing the way God works.

There are a billion things I could write about on my blog. All I need to do is check Facebook or the national headlines, and I could write for hours on the hottest topics. I could start countless debates that would eventually lead into even more blog posts, but that’s not what I want to do.

I want to know that when my time on this planet has come to an end, I did everything I could to share Jesus with as many people as possible. Not so I can feel as if I made a difference. Only so people can have hope. Christ in me, the hope of glory. If you don’t agree with something I write or believe, that’s okay. You are the steward of your own heart. The truth of the Gospel doesn’t change just because someone doesn’t agree with it.

I took the comments feature off my blog a while back, because I’m not going to argue and debate with people about these things. I turned them on for this post. I would like to hear (especially from fellow writers) what kinds of things you like to write about, and what compels you to do so.

Whether you agree with me or not, I still love you. I won’t try to convince you of anything, I will love you. It changes nothing.

So, will the words ever stop? As long as I am in constant communion with my Father, they won’t. I will always have something to write about. Isn’t that cool?

My Library

Just wanted to put all my novellas, with their links, into one post. I’ve gained a lot of new readers over the past few months, and I know how easy it is for older posts to get lost. You can click on each picture, and it will take you right to the Amazon page where it’s for sale. Thank you so much for your support. I would ask that if you read any of these books, please leave a review for me on Amazon. I greatly appreciate it. God bless.

Click to purchase

My latest book is entitled, I Was There. It’s a collection of ten Bible stories written from first person perspective. To date, this is my favorite one. I love writing fiction, but there’s no real hope that it can change someone’s life. With I Was There, I believe it has the potential to help people in all areas of life. I’m truly excited to see what God is going to do with it. I’ve already started on a second collection and have the rough drafts completed for three stories.



Other Side of Night CoverOther Side of Night actually ran for ten weeks in the Kingsport, TN newspaper and the West Australian. It was part of the Newspaper in Education department where they read the story to children in school and used it as a teaching tool. Pretty cool stuff.




The Stranger CoverThe Stranger has been my most popular book up to this point. I started it as a serial story on my blog a long time ago, then decided to turn it into a book.





Unknown CoverUnknown is the first in a trilogy that I hope to get back to one day.




Dropping Stones

One of my favorite stories from the entire Bible is about the woman who was caught in adultery. (John 8:1-11) The Pharisees were chomping at the bit to have her stoned. I can only imagine their frenzy as they dragged the woman to the temple courts where a certain celebrity was teaching. The Bible doesn’t say, but I wonder if they made a huge spectacle on their way to see Jesus. What were they saying to the woman as they neared the temple? Were they calling for other people to join them as they rushed to carry out what would surely be the Godly thing to do? End her life. Seal her fate. Write her off.

I can only imagine the condemnation being poured out from their self-righteous mouths, pushing her further down into the mire of her guilt and shame. Without even knowing who she was, or anything about her story, I bet others joined right in with their judgmental bashing. The Pharisees, after all, were the “holy ones” of the era. They were the religious leaders who followed God’s law without fail. They never got it wrong. No one dared argue with their wisdom and knowledge of the ancient scriptures.

What a surprise it must have been when they placed her in front of Jesus and explained the situation. Instead of immediately answering them with a command to stone her, Jesus ignores the most religious men in all the land, bends down, and begins to scribble in the dirt. There have been many views on what exactly He was writing. I tend to believe that He might have been writing out their own sins. Of course He knew them all, He’s Jesus. When the Pharisees realized what it was, they still repeated their question.

Jesus finally answers by saying that whomever has no sin can throw the first stone. There was no other option than for them to unclinch their tightened fists and drop the stones they were so eager to throw. What else could they have possibly done? I’m sure the crowd had pressed in to see what the great teacher had written. The Pharisees were busted. Here they were trying to trap Jesus, and He completely turned the tables on them.

If anyone standing there had the right to accuse the woman of sinning, it was Jesus Himself. The One with no sin. The One who led a perfect life. He chose forgiveness over her failure.

How often are we quick to judge others? Do we rush around to all of our “Christian” friends eager to bash another imperfect human because of something they’ve said or done? Do we turn our nose up at someone who is marrying a person of the same sex? Do we turn our backs on the fifteen year old pregnant girl who made a mistake? These are the people we should be running to with open arms.

Why would anyone want to follow Christ if all they receive is judgement and condemnation from those who claim to know Him?

Just as the Pharisees, who stood before Jesus thinking they were God’s gift to the unwashed masses, assumed it was their duty to judge, so do we. It’s not at all. We need to realize that just because we have Jesus, we’re not elevated onto some untouchable platform, and all the sinners are wandering around in circles below us. We are all broken. We all hurt. We all struggle. We all desire a relationship with someone who gets it.


It’s hard to open up your arms to someone in love if you’re carrying a bag of rocks.

Under the Bridge

Saturday night, we were blessed to receive several tickets to the Charlotte Bobcats basketball game. The Chicago Bulls were in town, and I have to admit, I was very excited. The Bulls have been my favorite NBA team since the late 80’s. It would be my first time to watch them live, and I was pumped and ready for the experience. We parked a couple miles away from the arena and walked. It was cold. Once the sun faded into the horizon, the temperature dropped quickly. The wind ripped through in gusts reaching more miles per hour than I would have wanted. Even with jackets on, we were all gritting our teeth and shivering from the frigid air.

Then I noticed the man sleeping under the bridge, and my heart sank.

With one quick glance, my excitement for the game diminished into a gut-wrenching reality. I’ve written about the homeless before. I penned an Open Letter to Society where I attempted to put myself in the place of someone living on the streets. However great my intentions were in the moment, I can’t possibly fathom what it’s like to survive in a world completely opposite of our own. Well, it was nearing six o’clock, and we were already running behind. We continued on to our destination inside the Time Warner Cable arena, where the warmth embraced us like the father who welcomed home his prodigal son.

I enjoyed the game and the atmosphere, but inside, the image of that man sleeping under the bridge haunted me. Our friend said there were several people who lived beneath that same covering of concrete and steel. They stopped asking others for anything a long time ago. Our first instinct, when a homeless person asks for money, is to cringe inside and either ignore them, or shake our heads and keep on walking. I completely understand that feeling. However, an excuse that the person may abuse the money on drugs or alcohol doesn’t make up for our indifference. Yes, I’ve given people money when they asked for it, but I would much rather buy them a value meal from McDonald’s, or take them a coat. Like everything else, there are many opinions on the issue of homelessness in our country. I’m not here to debate those with anyone.

I’m talking about a loss of interest in basic humanity. We don’t know the story behind the woman with a cardboard sign standing at the intersection. We assume the man lying on the park bench is a drug abuser. We say the crippled man on the corner begging is just faking a disability to gain sympathy. Is the “we can’t help everyone” mentality crushing our desire to love these people regardless of their appearance, story, or capability to seek employment? But wait, God helps those who help themselves, right? Isn’t that the mantra we use as Christians to avoid associating with people who make us feel uncomfortable?

You can search the Bible page by page, verse by verse, and you will never find that phrase anywhere. In fact, the Bible teaches the exact opposite. The entire point of Jesus dying on the cross was because there was nothing we could do in our own power to obtain salvation. If God only helps those who help themselves, we are all doomed to an eternity in Hell. Romans 5:6 says this:

6 You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless,Christ died for the ungodly.

Jesus died for the homeless, the ones standing on a street corner begging, that man lying on the park bench, the woman outside the fast food joint hoping someone will buy her a burger, and the very same man I saw sleeping under that bridge. The blind, the leper, and the lame were all powerless to help themselves, and Jesus helped them anyway.

What’s our excuse?

Chris Martin

An Open Letter to the President.

You don’t know my name, and we will never meet. I am nothing more than a statistic penciled into a spreadsheet that will eventually disappear like the bright sun falling into the arms of twilight. This letter isn’t only from me. It is the cry of many voices who have been silenced before ever given the chance to speak. It’s a rise against injustice, but more importantly, inhumanity. You see, there are many arguments to both sides of the issue, but my thoughts are conceived from personal experience. This letter isn’t a collection of words I grouped together to stress a point. It’s a plea for mercy.

You are arguably the most powerful man in the world. When you speak, people listen. In your hand, you hold enough authority to initiate changes that affect an entire nation. For those reasons, I am bringing my request directly to your doorstep. I understand there is nothing more anyone can do for me. I know this is a fact, and I have come to accept it as such. However, I believe there is still a chance for those with a destiny not yet defined. With their future hanging in a fragile balance, I urge you to consider my words not only with an open mind, but also with an open heart.

At the moment conception sparks, I have life. I am no longer a thought or whispered hope playing hide and seek with a woman’s emotions. I am real. I might not be able to speak, demonstrate logic, or even vote, but the beginning of my journey has sprung into existence. The One who breathed life into all of creation has determined I am worth forming inside my mother’s womb. With gentle hands, He has carefully sewn me together and shaped my entire being. My future consists of many pages waiting to be penned. But, like so many others, the story concluded before it had a chance to flourish.

I believe it was hard for her. I listened to her weep every night as she dropped to her knees and prayed to God. I could feel guilt and shame permeate her entire being. I screamed out for her to please give me a chance at something miraculous and wonderful, but she couldn’t hear me. I just don’t understand why my own mother wouldn’t want me. How can someone discard another human being before they even meet face to face? Did something horrible happen to her, and she didn’t think there was any other option? Was she pressured into a decision she wasn’t quite ready to make? I know she believed it was wrong, because she wrestled back and forth with the idea up until the very moment it happened.

I often think about how my life would be right now had I been given a chance. Would I have been interested in sports? Maybe I would have ventured into politics where I would have the power to influence the lives of so many people. What would my favorite color have been? My favorite food? Would I have been pretty? Would I have liked my name? All of these are questions that will never be answered. Mr. President, have you ever stopped to consider that you could have been nothing more than a statistic as well? What if your mother had been too frightened with the ramifications of giving birth to a child?

Every breath you take, every word you speak, every emotion you feel. You owe it all to a mother who decided it was worth the risk to bring you into this world. I’m sure, like my own mother, she was terrified and nervous, because there are a million things that can go wrong. But, you were given a chance to write your story. You had the opportunity to shape your future. And you had the good fortune to experience the gratification of being a parent. I will never have any of those things. They were unfairly ripped from my grasp before I could even see the light of day.

When you so easily say every woman should have a choice at killing their own child, please remember this letter. The blood of thousands, no millions, is dripping from your hands, and you act as if it doesn’t bother you. The indifference of a society hell-bent on pleasing the masses is destroying this country. Every night before you slip into bed, take a long look into the mirror and ask yourself one question. What if you’re wrong?

You don’t know my name, and we will never meet.

An Open Letter to Society.

You’ve seen me. I’m the man standing at the intersection holding a small, poorly written message on a cardboard sign. I’m the woman peering into your window at the stop light, hoping you will reach out your hand and drop some change into mine. Most people don’t even have the decency to look me directly in the eye. Are you frightened of me? Are you so engrossed in your own personal world that you don’t notice me? Or, is it something else? Has the cold reality of indifference permeated the very fiber of every human being not sleeping on the streets?

I understand you don’t know me. You see me as a complete stranger, begging for money or cigarettes. Granted, there are some who wander around mooching off others simply because they lack the desire to wake up every morning and go into work. Having figured out that wearing old, dirty clothes and not bathing for days may earn them sympathy, they become actors, living a lie. Maybe it’s their deception that has tainted the views of an uncaring society. Like everything else, we are branded with a stereotype that may very well seal our destiny. It’s the “If you’ve seen one beggar, you’ve seen them all” mentality. I urge you, no, I implore you to hear me out. Let these words sink through your hardened exterior and into the cracks of a soul that yearns to believe in the good of humanity.

I once had a great life. I was married with two kids. I was blessed with an amazing job that took me around the world to see places I could never have dreamed of visiting. It’s easy to take everything for granted when life is going so well. The reality is that nothing lasts forever, and the rug can be yanked out at any moment. We go through life feeling invincible, that all of our hopes and dreams are waiting patiently at the end of our fingertips. I worked hard for the things I used to have. I fought to keep them in my life, but sometimes, giving everything we have is just simply not enough. The darkness I endured for several years took its toll, leaving me with nothing I could call my own, except for the dirt on the soles of my worn out shoes.

You see, I served my country for many years. I fought battles in a war raging thousands of miles away from the comfort and safety of my home. I witnessed the worst humanity has to offer, and sometimes the best. The nightmares are relentless, and I fear they will follow me to my grave. I’ve watched men, women, and children die in the arms of brutal violence with no meaning. Brave men and women sacrificed their lives for complete strangers, and never gave it a second thought. They were my brothers and sisters. They had become my family. When I returned from the horrors of war, I found there wasn’t a place for me here anymore. I felt like an outcast, an alien in a foreign land. When I should have been welcomed home as a hero who served his country with pride and dedication, I was thrown to the curb. I lost everything.

The stress of living with a damaged vet was too much for my wife. She took both kids and left me. I couldn’t find a job. I was told to get therapy, but no one would help pay for it. So I sat in an empty house, while the world kept on turning, wondering why I was even alive. Deep down, the memories of my fallen brothers urged me to shake off self pity, and earn the life their sacrifice had purchased. I just didn’t have anything left that resembled hope. When the bank took my house, I had no choice but to leave with nothing but the clothes on my back. I thank God there are still homeless shelters available for temporary living quarters. Mostly though, I’m alone on the streets with nothing but hopelessness and a small sign.

I stare into the eyes of strangers hoping someone will give me a chance. As I lay awake on the sidewalk under the blanket of a cardboard box, I ask God why. Why doesn’t anyone care about those of us who are struggling? Why can’t we ever seem to catch a break? Why has society turned their backs on the less fortunate, and instead they chase after luxury cars and over-spacious homes? With blood and tears, I fought for the very freedoms they take for granted. Yet, I am looked upon as nothing more than a homeless beggar. A citizen from the underbelly of this great nation I lost everything for.

The next time you see someone standing at the intersection holding a cardboard sign, remember this letter. That person might be a mother or father. They are someone’s son or daughter.

Maybe they are like me, a veteran who has no home. A man who has no hope.

Chris Martin

School Opens Today After Shooting

Here is the video from the most recent school shooting.


A 12 year old walks into school with a sawed off shotgun and starts shooting. I know there is evil in this world. As a Christian, I believe the ruler of this ball we call Earth is Satan himself. It’s still shocking when we hear news like this. What could possibly be going through a 12 year old’s mind to make him want to do something so violent?

Is it for attention? Has the media coverage of these events spawned a generation of youth who want to get recognized on TV? What is it?

I’m not big into arguing about gun control. In fact, I don’t think the problem is with the guns themselves. I’m curious as to your take. What is the solution to the school shootings that seem to happen on a more frequent basis?

Chris Martin

Reflections From a Broken Mirror (repost)

At some point in our life, I believe we have all been there. Unsatisfied with how we look, act, or fit in. It’s human nature to never be happy with how we are. In some cases, that can actually be a good thing, but for now, I’m talking mainly about our appearance and how we feel about life in general. In a world where we are bombarded with millions of different looks, fads, opinions, and opportunities, it’s a miracle we even know who we are as individuals.

It’s everywhere. TV. Movies. Books. Magazines. Billboards. Newspapers. Daily, we are subjected to what the world, society, thinks we should be. What we should wear. What we should eat. What we should not eat. What is healthy. What is not healthy. The list stretches beyond eternity where no one can see an end to the madness. People are looked down upon if they don’t keep up with their neighbors. Men are degraded constantly in TV commercials. No matter where we look, sin is shown as friendly and fun.

There are lost and hurting people all around us, but sadly, most of the world turns round and round with an air of indifference. We are taught to look out for ourselves, move up the ladder of success, get the newest car, buy the largest house on the block, etc. We’re so busy chasing after the American Dream, we forget about the least of these. We forget that if we help the homeless man on the street corner, we’re helping Jesus. (Matthew 25:40) If we feed the woman standing outside McDonald’s with no money, we are feeding Jesus.

As I usually say when I publish blog posts, I am not throwing any stones. We are all broken. Your reason may be scars caused from past abuse. Maybe it’s an addiction. Or maybe we’ve been through such horrible things in our life, it’s sometimes difficult to even express in words. In my own broken mirror, the reflection I see looking back is one of heartbreak, loss, failure, hope, happiness, faith, and redemption.

In my opinion, one of the most powerful moments written about in the New Testament is the story of the woman caught in adultery. (John 8:7) The religious leaders of that time brought her before Jesus and declared that according to the Law of Moses, they should immediately stone her to death. I get chills every time I watch that scene in Passion of the Christ when Jesus draws the line in the sand and, one by one, the stones drop from their clutched fists.

None of us have the right to judge anyone else for who they are, or more importantly, for what they have or have not done.

There is only One who can repair the cracks in our mirrors. When we see broken glass, we assume it’s worthless, and toss it into the trash. When God looks at our broken lives, he sees opportunity. He sees pain that only His perfect healing can replace. He sees beauty that only His perfect love can reveal to us. He sees worth that no amount of money, clothing, popularity, or status could ever appreciate. One by one, He replaces the broken pieces with His love. When He’s finished, we can finally step in front of that mirror and realize the greatness of our God and look at ourselves through His lens to see what we look like in His eyes.

We are His children. We are His family. We are His beloved.


Chris Martin

It’s Time

Darkness. An endless expanse, void of light. A blackness so deep and encompassing that the dead embrace it, and the living fear it. My son passed away, and I am heartbroken. I knew this day would come. The absence of life requires the presence of death. It’s a well known fact that at the moment of birth, the long journey to the grave begins. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. That’s how life works. Death doesn’t care if you’re young or old, male or female. It doesn’t see color or religion.

Some would say my son was unique, special even. Before he was born, I knew he would accomplish great things. He was a natural born leader. People were drawn to him, and most of the time, they didn’t even know why. When he spoke, people stopped what they were doing, and they listened. He was slow to anger and quick to forgive. He had a gift of explaining things in such a simple way that anyone could understand. He was far from simple however. He was a miracle baby.

His compassion was endless. He was always the first to help anyone in need. His friends often marveled at his gentle way of dealing with those whom most of the world would reject. The broken. The poor. The ones who had lost all hope in a society that long ago pushed them to the curb. He never had much, but he gave everything he had. It was just his way. He never lived for himself, only for others. He showed love to those who didn’t do anything to deserve it, but that never stopped him. Even when people, who didn’t understand, tried to turn others against him, he pressed on.

His mother was very young when our son was born. She didn’t fully comprehend the weight of responsibility that was placed upon her, but she accepted it, and tried her very best. He loved her so much, and she loved him. It was a bond strengthened by trials and hardships that would have severed most relationships. Even though she couldn’t understand it all, she also believed our son was destined for greatness. She often talked about his purpose in life, and expressed her desire to see him grow up and change the world. Even though it wasn’t how she had imagined, he did indeed fulfill that desire.

Throughout his entire time on Earth, my son knew without a doubt what his purpose was in life. He wasn’t called to live like everyone else and just be ordinary. Royalty ran through his lineage, but he always said he would prefer to serve rather than be served. He was a king, but lived like a common man. He could have enjoyed the best that life had to offer, but he chose to be homeless and do without. He saw the best in people, even when they couldn’t see it themselves. When others said it couldn’t be done, my son said nothing was impossible.

He stood up for the weak and defenseless. He demonstrated to those closest to him how important it was to love others. He led by example, not just in speech. He said there was no greater expression of love than for someone to give his life for his friends. Whether they knew it or not, my son loved them more than his life.

The full realization of what was about to happen descended upon my son while he was praying in the garden. The struggle was so difficult that drops of blood streamed down his face. He cried out with anguish that was so deep and raw, because he knew what lied ahead, and he pleaded for me to provide another way. What I asked of him wasn’t easy, but there was no one else who could do what was required.

I watched as the soldiers brutally hammered my one and only son to the cross. Gabriel and a host of other angels stood at the ready, swords in their hands, anticipating his cry for help. That request never came. My son took upon himself all the sin and darkness of the world, and didn’t utter a single word. As his human heart became weaker with every beat, his love grew even stronger. His mother screamed out his name over and over pleading for his life, but even she couldn’t alter his destiny. I sent my only son to Earth to take on human form, and allow himself to become the ultimate sacrifice for all of mankind.

That day was the darkest moment in my sons life. When I turned my back, he cried out “It is finished.”

It’s been three days. There is work to be done. While Jesus hung there on the cross and death celebrated a monumental victory, I set into motion a profound event that would not only shatter the chains of death forever, but create a life altering ripple in the timeline of history. As the moon descended and dawn gave birth to a new day, I rolled away the stone of the tomb that held my son in whom I am most pleased. I breathed life into his lungs.

“Arise, my son. It’s time.”


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Have a blessed day