Because He Lives: A Holy Week I’ll Never Forget

He Lives. And I Needed to Remember That.

This Holy Week has felt different for me.

I didn’t rush through it this year. I let myself sit in each part of the story, and honestly—it undid me a little.

I found myself thinking about Jesus in Gethsemane more than usual.

Alone. Heavy. Begging His Father for another way.

And still—choosing us. Choosing me.

How often do I beg for another way, too? How often do I forget that He already made one?

I imagined the betrayal—by someone He loved.

The kind that leaves a bruise deeper than the wound.

And I thought about the moments in my life when trust was broken, and how His heart must have ached in a way only He understands.

I pictured the cross, the mocking, the moment the sky went dark.

How the earth trembled when He gave up His spirit.

And I felt the sorrow of that Saturday—the stillness.

The in-between space where hope feels far and silence screams louder than words.

But then…

Sunday.

The stone rolled away.

The linens folded with care.

And the Resurrected Lord calling her name: Mary.

He knew her name.

He knows mine.

He knows yours.

“I am he who liveth, I am he who was slain.” (D&C 110:4)

He’s not just a part of scripture stories or Easter hymns.

He’s the Christ of my right now.

The One who shows up when I’m falling apart in the middle of the kitchen.

The One who answers prayers I barely have the strength to whisper.

The One who reminds me, again and again, you are not alone.

This week reminded me that I don’t just believe in a Savior who lived.

I believe in One who lives.

Who still heals. Still loves. Still reaches. Still walks with us.

So today, I say it with everything I’ve got:

He lives. And because He lives, I can face whatever comes next.