She approached timidly as I exited the conference double doors. She wrung in her hands the notes she had taken during the sessions and thanked me for sharing truth unabashedly. I thanked her for the compliments, but knew there was something beneath the surface of complimentary banter.

The brightly colored balloons and teal accents revealed the conference was geared for teens, but peppered in the audience were faces of mothers who attended alongside their daughters. She was one such attendee, weathered by premature stress and an obvious feeling of conflict. Sensing the tension, I opened the conversation up gently to see if her wringing hands of worry were open to be discussed.

I don’t believe you. I mean, it’s hard to believe what you said,ย she said as teared welled up in her eyes. Her wringing of hands turned into a shutter of shoulders and I watched a grown woman turn away from a oncoming group of teen girls. I knew what she was referring to. In the final session of the conference, I mentioned we were worth dying for.

The Jesus who healed, the Jesus who cured, the Jesus who loved, the Jesus who provided, the Jesus who was sinless, the Jesus who was beaten, the Jesus who was mocked, the Jesus who was scourged and whipped; the Jesus who was pierced, the Jesus who bore the cross of shame, Jesus who cried, was the Jesus who died for us. He believed we were worth dying for.

You are worth dying for.ย 

It was as if she wanted me to admit I was being illustrative or telling a fable; as if I was lying to her. There was something in her past causing her to feel unworthy of Christ’s act of unending love. But she’s wrong. She’s worth it. You are worth it.

We are worth dying for.

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