Emily Belle Freeman

“How did He get the marks?”

I looked at his tiny finger placed in the nail hole on the feet of Jesus.

Dirt under his fingernail, forehead creased as he thought things through. He looked up at Jesus and then back down at the nail hole where his finger rested.

“Nana, how did He get the marks?”

“That is a very important question,” I told Him, “and the answer to that comes with a very important story.”

I knelt down and started with Gethsemane, the Roman soldiers, the trial, the cross, the nails, His mom standing nearby, the friends who wrapped Him in soft linen, the dark tomb, the stone rolled away, the angels, Mary weeping, the Savior calling her by name.

I watched His eyes grow wider and wider as the story went on. I forgot what Easter is like through the eyes of a four-year-old.

When I was done, the question changed.

“But Nana, why did He get the marks.”

That answer was much shorter.

“For you.”

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. (John 15:13)

He did it for you.

People often ask me how we raised our kids. If I were to give you four simple tips it would be these…

When they were little, we all used to snuggle together under the down comforter on our queen bed.

They’re grown now, but sometimes—on late nights—you’ll still find one of them there, tucked at the bottom of our feet. Talking.

The way we do.

At our house, the midnight snack was always a bowl of cereal. Everyone would gather at the end of the day after work, or lacrosse, or a date—to process what life looked like. We gave our best advice. We trusted each other.

We still do.

For all those lacrosse years, they wore the same color jersey and played for the same coach. If they weren’t in the game, they were cheering from the sidelines.

The field is bigger now—it crosses state lines. But we still play for the same team: Freeman Strong. And it doesn’t matter how many miles apart we live.

We cheer each other on.

In those early years, we used to circle together in the family room. Prayer wasn’t just said before breakfast or dinner. If you were to read our family text thread, the message you’d see most often would be seven simple words: “Can everybody pray for me right now?”

That text never sits unanswered.

People reply right away. Within minutes, you know how many hearts are pleading to heaven in your behalf. We’ve prayed each other through college exams, business interviews, broken hearts, and cancer.

We invited God into the ongoing conversation of our life.

We still do.

Maybe it seems too simple.
We talk.
We trust.
We cheer.
We pray.

But somehow, heaven always meets us there—right in the middle of our family circle, wherever it happens to be.

In kitchens and cars.
Across time zones and text threads.
We reach for Him as we reach out to each other.

And we are strong.

She has been in Ireland for six months. Here from Namibia. She left everything behind for a job offer.
She told us how proud her parents are. She is the first generation to graduate, this job offer was a great reason for celebration. But the celebration has dimmed now that she lives so far from family. She is lonely.
The others nodded their heads when she said that, they understood that feeling, they long for belonging.
I asked if going to church has given her a home, a familiar place, a refuge. I wondered if she looks forward to Sundays.
She testified of covenant relationship. It is what is carrying her through.
And then she taught us her greatest learning over the six months so far.
“I am not just a member of the church. I am the church.”
It’s not about a building, she explained, or Sunday. it’s about the relationship.
Everywhere she goes she walks with Him, she represents Him, she belongs to Him.
And that has given her strength. And courage.
I repeated that phrase in my head all night so I wouldn’t forget it.
I am the church.
The very witness of Him.
When I am walking down crowded streets, or eating in unfamiliar places, or talking with strangers.
I am the church. At all times and in all things and in all places.
I am a living witness of Him.
And He is with me.
Always.

I don’t have words to describe what life looks like right now. The other day I was counting baby Izzy’s little toes and soaking in her goodness while keeping a close eye on Greg, who was experiencing the exhaustion and nausea a round of chemo brings.
“This is my life now,” I thought to myself.
It is joy and fear minute by minute.
I feel my capacity being stretched, and some days I honestly don’t know if I have the strength for it all.
But one afternoon last week, a large box showed up on the front porch. I hadn’t ordered anything lately. I was so intrigued by what might be inside. As I pulled out the homemade quilt, a note slipped from the box.
A darling woman from Texas had made me a quilt with the names of Jesus, and she explained how much time had gone into it.
It wasn’t until the final step of piecing it together that she realized it was larger than she had anticipated—so large that she debated not sending it.
Maybe it was too much.
So she texted her daughter to ask what she should do, and her daughter told her to send it.
“But it takes up all the space,” the quilter replied. Then her daughter reminded her it was a quilt with the names of Christ. “Maybe it’s because that’s just who He is,” her daughter answered back.
I hung the quilt up that day.
For the record, it was exactly the right size for the wall. As if it had been measured for that space.
And now I keep reminding myself of the wisdom of that sweet daughter: “He takes up all the space.”
He will fill in the gaps.
He is enough.
He will carry us through.
That’s just who He is.
I don’t know why that darling woman from Texas decided to spend so much time and creativity on such a beautiful gift for me.
But my life has already been blessed immensely by it.
A moment where I experienced what it felt like to be the one.
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