Ripped Open

In January 2019, David Hernandez got the call at eleven p.m. His daughter Sofia, a first-year teacher in Anchorage, had been rushed into emergency surgery. David was in Portland, 2,400 miles south. Every flight was grounded by an Arctic front that had shut down half the airports on the West Coast.

So David drove. Thirty-seven hours through whiteout conditions, black ice, and mountain passes across three states. He pulled into Providence Alaska Medical Center with bloodshot eyes and frozen coffee cups covering the passenger seat.

Sofia was just coming out of anesthesia when he walked in. He didn't ask about the prognosis. He didn't offer advice. He took her hand and said five words: "I am proud of you."

Not proud of her career. Not proud of her courage. Proud of her. Identity spoken before recovery had even begun.

When Jesus rises from the Jordan in Mark's Gospel, the heavens don't politely open — they are torn apart, ripped like fabric. And through that Christ-sized tear, the voice of the Almighty crashes through: "You are My beloved Son; with You I am well pleased." Before a single miracle. Before a single sermon. Before Calvary.

God ripped heaven open to make sure His Son heard it first: You are Mine. You are loved. That comes before everything.