Just one part.

I have this cool memory from several years ago at my Grandmother’s funeral. The family was walking down to the front of the church behind her casket. It was a processional at the beginning over her funeral service. As we did I felt a part of something old. Like we were doing something our people had done for generations: lay people down to rest and wait for Jesus to come back.

I had a similar feeling the other night. Wes and I were playing and reading books. We’d just finished reading one and he got up to get another, turned to me and asked “Dad, why is Jesus the Son of God?”

I looked at him standing there little, and genuine in his question. I thought, “how many kids have asked that same thing over the thousands of years our people have been teaching that to their kids?” I loved that we were raising a kid to know who God is from the time he is little, and I instantly felt connected to my tribe of people who have been teaching the next generation what the previous one knew for thousands of years: Jesus is gone, but not dead. He’s with God and is God, and he’s coming back. It feels nice to know you are a part of something that cool.

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