I had long given up. Well maybe not what’s long for you, but for a twelve-year-old it seemed like a long time. As a young boy I could never remember a time when I didn’t believe in God. This God I believe in gave me hope, but now my hope was fading. I had a snapshot called hope tucked away in the private places of my thoughts. Its image consisted of a scene earlier in my life of my dad and me. We were singing a hymn together in a little church. He was a big strong man. I was a little boy standing in the wooden pew. His hand was on one side of the hymnbook and mine was on theother. I couldn’t read, but it didn’t matter. Together we sang. That was my snapshot. I couldn’t shake it. I didn’t want to. I still can’t.
My dad had a drinking problem. Our family bore the blunt of it. I lived in fear. My dad lived a scary life. I was beginning to give up. This snapshot was becoming old and wore out. My memories were giving way to the pain I felt and the experiences I was dealt. I was lost. I was lost in the sins of a generation. I was in despair. I was bracing myself for all the things sin brings into ones life. Things like pain, separation, hurt, numbness, anger, bitterness, and ultimately death.
That’s when it happened. Resurrection! My dad came thundering down the steps. He sounded like a herd of water buffalo startled by an approaching lion. “Get up son! We are going to church today!” Hope lit up like a fireworks display on the fourth of July. I saw that snapshot again! My dad had experienced resurrection. I awoke to a resurrection that morning.
The tomb was empty. It still is!