A few years back, I was driving a golf cart down a hill. My dad and my 2-year-old daughter, Abi, were in the cart with me. It had just rained that morning and the grass was damp. As we were approaching the bottom of the hill, the cart began to spin. Before I knew it, we had tipped over. I can still remember the gut wrenching feeling in the immediate aftermath. My dad and I both were least concerned about ourselves; we only cared about how Abi was. After a brief cry from being scared, she cheered right up and we realized she didn’t even get a scratch. To this day, I still ponder on that event and think about my choice to take the grass instead of the road. I think about what that choice could have cost me. For a while now, the week that leads into Easter every year stirs up similar emotions in my spirit. I am constantly reminded of the part I have played in putting Jesus on the cross. I see myself in his disciples, in his accusers, even in his betrayer. I connect with the confusion and the chaos of that week. I have the gut wrenching feeling that I somehow put him there…on the cross. But then…the same feeling I got when my daughter’s smile signaled that she was unharmed, is the same feeling I get when I think about the empty grave. An empty grave that signals the most beautiful and meaningful event to ever occur on the planet. Every year I am reminded of the day my Savior conquered death and brought forth new life for all. That is what Easter means to me.