When I was a little girl we lived on a piece of land that had a wooden cross on it. They said it was Coronado’s cross, the early explorer. And it had the year 1555 scratched on it.
Often I would wonder what it would be like to hang from a cross. My brothers and I would take turns climbing on the rock base and leaning against the wood. We would imagine we were hanging from the cross. But my most vivid memories of that cross are mixed with rain.
In Kansas when it rains in the early morning, there is a golden glow spread over all you can see. It was raining as we came home one Easter morning after the sunrise service. I was a very young girl of 5 or 6 years. As I looked at that golden cross I realized that Jesus had died on the cross for me. When He died, He knew He was dying for my sins.
Now when I think of Jesus on the cross, I always remember that golden cross on the hill. I had touched the wood of that cross. I had climbed on the rock base and thought of Jesus. But at that moment, as a little girl, I knew He loved me. And at that moment, I loved Him.
