There was a time when fear ruled me—when darkness whispered louder than hope, and the shadow of death loomed like an unmovable mountain before me. I believed what the world said about me: that my fate was sealed, my story finished, my days numbered. I felt trapped in the quiet lie that the pain would never lift, that the loss would never heal, that the light would never return. The enemy was convincing. He told me the case was closed with no appeal. He told me my future was buried six feet under, sealed in grief, sealed in failure, sealed in shame. He dressed up in ghost fashion, messing with my head, reminding me of everything I’d lost and everything I’d never be. And my heart—my weary, trembling heart—was holding its breath, terrified that the next one might be my last.
But God—oh, God. Even when I didn’t feel Him, He was there. Even when I believed death had the final word, He was already writing resurrection into the story. Even when fear screamed louder than faith, He whispered back, “Child, you’re not finished yet.” And I began to see that death—whether it’s physical, emotional, or spiritual—was never meant to be my king. “Whoa, you aren’t my king though.” Those words hit like freedom. Because death doesn’t get to define me. Pain doesn’t get to write my ending. Despair doesn’t get the last say. I serve the One who rolled the stone away, who walked out of the grave, who looked death in the face and said, “You lose.”
Death is no longer my fear—it’s my reminder. My reminder that life is stronger, that grace is greater, that love outlasts every shadow that tries to swallow it. So no, I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t say that lightly. I’ve walked through valleys so dark I couldn’t see my own hands in front of me. I’ve sat in hospital rooms, gravesides, and sleepless nights where hope felt like a foreign language. I’ve known the hollow ache of loss, the heaviness of depression, the silent scream of a heart that wants to believe but feels too tired to try. And still—I am here. Not because I’m strong. Not because I figured it out. But because my Savior never let go. Because when I hit the bottom, I found that His grace was already there waiting for me.
The world says death wins. That loss is the end. That brokenness can’t be healed. But faith says otherwise. Faith says that for every ending, there’s a resurrection coming. Faith says that when the world rolls a stone in front of your hope, God’s hand is already reaching for it. Faith says that when your heart is holding its breath, terrified of taking another one, heaven is whispering, “Breathe, beloved. I’m not done yet.” “Oh death, you scared me to death.” Yes—you did. You haunted me with what-ifs and goodbyes and unspoken prayers. You told me I was finished, that my pain was proof God had walked away. But now I see you for what you are—not a master, but a defeated foe. Not an ending, but a passageway.
Because I walk through the valley of the shadow of you, and I know I’m just passing through. That’s what faith is, isn’t it? Knowing that this life—all of it, the laughter and the tears, the love and the loss—is just a passageway. The valley is real, but it’s not forever. The shadow feels cold, but it can’t stay. The pain feels deep, but it’s not eternal. I walk through. And when I walk, I don’t walk alone. My Shepherd walks beside me. The same Jesus who faced death and conquered it now walks beside me through mine—through every kind of death life has tried to hand me. The death of dreams, the death of peace, the death of joy. He walks beside me, and every step I take is a declaration that I belong to life, not death.
“Oh death, I will not be afraid. In the end you will lose.” Those words aren’t just lyrics—they’re a proclamation of freedom. They’re the battle cry of the redeemed. Because I know who my Redeemer is, and I know how this story ends. Death may roar, but it’s an echo—it has no bite. Its sting was stolen by the One who bore it for me. Its power was broken on the hill where love hung bleeding but did not break. I will dance on your grave with the One who buried you. What a powerful truth. One day—whether in this life or the next—I will dance on the grave of everything that ever tried to destroy me. I will dance on the grave of fear, depression, sickness, and shame. I will dance on the grave of despair, because despair is dead to me. I will dance with the One who buried death itself, who trampled the enemy under His feet and declared, “It is finished.”
That’s what faith looks like—it dances even while the valley is still dark. It sings while the tears are still falling. It praises before the miracle arrives, because it knows who holds the victory. “You ain’t nothin’ but a stone that my Savior rolled away.” I think about that often. About all the “stones” life tries to bury us with—the grief, the guilt, the hopelessness, the fear. We stand outside the tomb of what once was, staring at the weight of it all, believing it can’t move. But Jesus—He’s still in the business of rolling stones. He still sets captives free. He still speaks life into what looks dead. He still shows up three days later and proves that the story isn’t over. And when He rolls the stone away, He doesn’t just leave me standing in awe—He invites me out of the darkness and into the light. He sets me straight and sets me free.
That’s redemption. That’s resurrection. That’s grace. It’s knowing that death, in all its forms, doesn’t own me anymore. “Oh death, you are dead to me.” Because my Savior lives, I live. Because He conquered, I conquer. Because He walked out of His tomb, I can walk out of mine—whatever that tomb looks like today. Maybe it’s a tomb of fear. Maybe it’s a tomb of loss, addiction, regret, or sorrow. Maybe it’s a tomb built from years of believing you’re too far gone, too broken, too small to be used by God. Whatever it is, that stone has already been rolled away. You don’t have to stay buried. You don’t have to keep living as though the grave still holds power. You don’t have to keep waiting for proof of life when the proof is already standing right in front of you—nail-scarred hands reaching out, saying, “Come forth.”
Faith is not the absence of fear—it’s the decision to keep walking anyway. It’s the quiet courage to say, “I may be scared, but I believe.” It’s the strength to lift your eyes to heaven when the valley feels endless and still say, “Oh death, you are dead to me.” Because death no longer defines me—grace does. Love does. Jesus does. Every scar on my heart is now a testimony, not a tombstone. Every wound He’s healed reminds me that resurrection isn’t just a story from long ago—it’s something that happens in me, over and over again. Every time I choose forgiveness instead of bitterness, hope instead of despair, faith instead of fear—I’m living resurrection.
And I will keep living it. Because this world, for all its darkness and loss, is not my home. I’m just passing through. My soul knows where it belongs. It belongs to the One who conquered the grave, who traded death for life, and who turns mourning into dancing. I have faced things that should have destroyed me, but they didn’t. I’ve walked through fire and come out with faith intact—not because of me, but because of Him. I’ve watched God bring beauty from ashes that I thought were beyond repair. I’ve watched Him breathe life into situations everyone else called hopeless. I’ve watched Him turn fear into testimony, pain into purpose, and death into resurrection.
And so I will keep walking through the valley—not in fear, but in faith. Because I know the valley isn’t the end. It’s just the pathway to the mountaintop. And when I reach the other side—when the shadows fade and the light floods in—I will dance. I will laugh. I will lift my hands with the One who buried death and say, “You tried, but you lost. You thought you could hold me, but grace held me stronger.” That is the power of Jesus Christ. That is the promise that keeps me moving, even on the hardest days. That is the hope that steadies me when life shakes.
My faith is not blind—it’s built on scars. It’s built on the hands that rolled the stone away. It’s built on the cross that looked like defeat but became victory. Death said my fate was sealed, but my Savior said otherwise. Death said my story was over, but God said, “Watch what I can do.” So I will keep walking, I will keep singing, I will keep believing. I will not be afraid. Because death, you are dead to me. Your sting is gone. Your hold is broken. Your voice is silenced.
And as long as I have breath, I will use it to praise the One who gave it. Because the cross wasn’t the end—it was the beginning. The grave wasn’t defeat—it was deliverance. The valley isn’t death—it’s just a shadow. And I’m just passing through. My fate is not sealed in death; it’s sealed in grace. My story doesn’t end in the grave; it ends in glory. My heart doesn’t beat in fear anymore; it beats in faith.
And when I take my final breath on this side of heaven, I already know what comes next. I will dance with the One who buried death. I will see the Savior who rolled away every stone. I will fall to my knees in awe and whisper, “You were right, Lord. Death really was dead to me.” Until that day, I will keep living resurrection—every sunrise, every scar, every step through the valley. Because I know this: death doesn’t get the last word. Jesus does.
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