Actually it’s not morning yet. It’s still dark night.

There are all sorts of things I would like to write, things more important than mail organizers — the topic of my last post — things that are beautiful and celebratory and all about Resurrection Sunday. But my mind isn’t up to the task. So I will write the words that have been filling my mind these past few moments:

He bore our shame.

Those of us who have been sexually abused know shame. It is our constant companion until we find healing. It baffles non-survivors, sometimes to the point of impatience: What do you have to be ashamed of? they ask, not understanding why we are reluctant to let anyone know about our rape. The shame belongs to the rapist, our supporters say so easily. You are not to blame. Yet the shame clings to us. Deserved, undeserved, it doesn’t matter. It’s there. Only other survivors seem to fully understand how crushing this burden is.

He bore our shame.

Not just our sins — amazing as that is. But He also bore our shame. We don’t need to sort out whether it belonged to us or was put on us by someone else. He took it all. Even the worst of it. Even the parts we think we could never whisper out loud. He carried it so we don’t have to.

Today we celebrate the miracle of Jesus’ resurrection. The grave didn’t hold Him. He’s alive!

It’s been a few years since the reality hit me that my Savior bore the shame of my rape. I was weary of carrying it. It was crushing me, destroying me. But you know what? All the stuff that got nailed to the cross with our Savior is gone. We don’t have to see if anything fell off that we need to put back on ourselves.

Simple words. Hardly profound. But lifechanging.

He bore my shame.

And He is risen.

Best news ever.