I have always been a believer, since as early as I can remember. Thanks to my parents, I was nurtured warmly in the traditions of Christianity as a child, and I took them to heart from the beginning. Even in my sassy pants teenage years, an ember of faith in Jesus Christ glowed in a hidden hearth.
This week, Easter week, is my favorite of the year. I get to relieve the events of each day, on the day (as best we can tell) they happened. Today marks Jesus’s final Passover in an upper room in Jerusalem, the sacred day that He himself instituted in the days of Moses, a day that honors His own eternal sacrifice. Every Sunday we renew our relationship with the Savior by taking of the emblems given to His disciples this night. The Last Supper was also, in a sense, the First Supper.
After they sang a hymn, most likely the Hallel or praise psalms, Psalms 113 through 118. Then Jesus and the elevent walked beyond the walls of Jerusalem to Gethsemane, a nearby olive grove, to prayer, to be alone, to suffer an agon, Greek for contest or struggle. What a monumental and decisive struggle that was, a struggle to pay a debt He did not owe, for those who did not understand or appreciate the cost or toll it required.