His Name is Jesus

I stood in my room—numb.

Grief hung in the air like a heavy fog, pressing down on every inch of my being. School, family, unanswered prayers—they all swirled around me, too much to bear. Depression whispered at the edges of my mind, and my world felt like it was shrinking, collapsing inward on itself.

I pressed my hands tightly over my ears. I tried to shut out the noise. The ache was overwhelming. I felt the weight of it all.
Then, from somewhere deep within, a voice rose—quiet but firm:

“His name is Jesus…”

The words echoed in my chest, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“His name is Jesus…”

Still not loud enough.
I threw my head back and shouted—let the heavens and my walls hear it:

“His name is JESUS!”

And everything shifted.

In that instant, I was pulled into a memory—or maybe a vision. A place that felt far away and yet deeply familiar. There I was, a little girl again, sitting cross-legged on Grandma’s living room floor. The soft voice of her Bible study teacher filled the space—gentle, yet alive with fire.

My young self leaned in, eyes wide, lips moving as I repeated:

“His name is Jesus…”

Then I looked up and asked the question burning in my heart:

“Who is He?”

The teacher smiled, her eyes warm and kind.
“Let me tell you how it all began,” she said.

Suddenly, I was no longer in the living room. I was inside the story—a living tapestry unfolding before my eyes.

I saw King David, weathered and worn, standing on a hilltop. His face was lifted toward heaven as he whispered in awe:

“I saw my Lord, seated at the right hand of my Lord.”

He spoke of One who would come—beaten and bruised beyond recognition, yet radiant with glory. A beauty I didn’t yet understand.

Then I saw another figure—an old man with white hair and blazing eyes. It was Isaiah.
He cried out, prophesying the Suffering Servant—the One pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities.

“These are the prophecies,” the teacher’s voice echoed beside me, “spoken long before Jesus ever walked the earth.”

The vision shifted.

Now, I stood in a quiet room where a teenage girl trembled. Her eyes held both fear and wonder.
An angel appeared, shining like morning light.

“The Holy Spirit will come upon you,” he said.
“You will conceive and give birth to a Son. You shall call His name Emmanuel—God with us.”

The girl nodded. A holy determination filled her gaze.
She would carry the promise.

I followed her through the long journey to Bethlehem, through the shadows of Herod’s fury. She gave birth in a stable, surrounded by straw and the warm breath of animals.

But in her arms… lay Heaven’s Darling itself.

Her eyes locked with Joseph’s.
And they whispered together:

“His name is Jesus.”

In the temple, I saw them again—presenting the infant Messiah.
Simeon, with tears in his eyes, lifted the child and declared:

“My eyes have seen Your salvation.”

Jesus grew.

At twelve, He amazed scholars in the temple.
As a man, He walked among crowds, healing the sick, raising the dead, speaking truth that pierced hearts.
Children ran to Him. Sinners were drawn to Him.

And I followed close, still wondering:
Who is this Jesus?

He taught in parables—stories that stayed with you like seeds waiting to bloom.

Then one day, He said to His disciples that He would die.

Peter pushed back—horrified.
Why would Jesus choose death?

I didn’t understand either.

Then came the garden.

After the Passover meal, He led Peter, James, and John to Gethsemane.
I followed at a distance, heart trembling.

He asked them to stay and pray. Then, He went a little farther and fell to the ground.

I knelt beside Him.
His whisper pierced the silence:

“Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me. Yet not My will, but Yours be done.”

He prayed three times. Each time He returned, they were asleep.

“Could you not watch with Me one hour?” He asked, gentle and grieving.

Then the night split open with torches and the sound of soldiers.
Judas walked ahead, kissed Him.

“You betray the Son of Man with a kiss?” Jesus asked.

Then, He turned to the crowd and spoke a name:

“I AM.”

And they staggered backward, overwhelmed by His glory.

“His name is Jesus…” I whispered.

Then came the cross.

Beaten. Bloodied.
His body, a sacrifice. His mother knelt beneath Him, her cries wrenching.

“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” He cried.
“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”

He gave up His spirit. The earth quaked.
The veil tore in the temple—from top to bottom.

“Surely, this was the Son of God,” someone whispered.

I watched those who mocked Him raise their cups in celebration.
They thought it was over.

But it was not.

As I looked upon the cross,
I saw His death.
His ascension.
My God.

They laid Him in a tomb. Sealed it with a stone. Stationed Rome’s best to guard it.

But I saw what they did not.

He descended into Hades—not as a prisoner, but as a conquering King.

Majestic. Fearless.
The gates of darkness trembled at His presence.

Then came the cry of Heaven—loud and thunderous:

“Worthy! Worthy is the Lamb!”

Oh, how they praised!

And I couldn’t help but shout,
“Go, Jesus!”

He walked in and the hosts of hell were silenced.
He seized the keys—the keys of Death and Hades, just as He had promised.

“I am He that liveth, and was dead; and behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.”
— Revelation 1:18

He stripped rulers and powers of their dominion.

“Having disarmed principalities and powers,
He made a public spectacle of them,
triumphing over them by the cross.”
— Colossians 2:15

Then a voice rang out:

“Who is this King of Glory?”

And the heavens roared:

“The Lord strong and mighty,
The Lord mighty in battle!”
— Psalm 24:8

He led captivity captive.

And I saw it—I had followed Him into death.

I had died with Him.
I had been buried with Him.
And now—I was raised with Him.

“For if we have been united with Him in a death like His,
we will certainly also be united with Him in a resurrection like His.”
— Romans 6:5

Heaven danced.
I danced.

I saw Him resurrected—my Jesus—alive forevermore!

Then came Mary Magdalene, weeping outside the empty tomb.
A voice called her name.

“Mary.”

She turned and gasped.

“Rabboni!” she cried, running into His embrace.

⸻

Present Day

Suddenly, I was back in my room.

But something had changed.

I had changed.

My soul understood.

His name is Jesus.

My Savior. My King.
The One who won it all for me.

He erased the accusations, wiped the shame, silenced the voices of defeat by His blood .

I had been rescued.
Translated from darkness into the Kingdom of His glorious light.

The room hadn’t changed.

But I had.

My heart burned. My eyes were fixed.

In heaven, the twenty-four elders knelt before the throne.
The angels cried out:

“Holy, holy, holy!”

His beauty filled the temple like light fills morning.

I had no words.

He reached out His hand and beckoned me.

I took His hand.
“You belong to and with Me,” He said.

And together—we sat.

Now, we are seated above.

“And raised us up together, and made us sit together in heavenly places in Christ Jesus.”
— Ephesians 2:6 (KJV)