Pain Is Hell's Failure

Hallelujah. Hallelujah to the Lamb. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. I give you praise today, O Lord, for your excellent greatness and your mighty acts. Praise God. Praise God. I am a debtor to Calvary. And I can't meet that debt, right? I don't do anything I do to try to pay that debt back, because that's not possible. If I could, then it wouldn't be grace. But I owe Him everything, and I am so blessed today.

Thank you for your kindness to me, for the great privilege to be at this 111th Louisiana camp meeting. What a special time. And again today, of course, I give my thanks to your superintendent, your secretary, your district board, the great leaders here. I mentioned last night — I think I did — I'm 61 years old. I don't know how that happened. I was 18 about three weeks ago, pretty sure of it. But I will admit that the little boy in me comes out when I even consider the fact that I get to share a platform this morning with one of my heroes. If anybody told me when I was 18 or 25 or anywhere along there that one day I'd get to preach on the same platform that Wayne Huntley preached at at a meeting, I would have said, "Yeah, you're crazy." But I honor you, sir. You've been such an influence on my life, even from a distance. And I thank you today. God can, God will, God is. I'm just thinking that sometime in the next couple of years we're going to hear about him praying an Amazon driver through on his back porch. I'm for it. I'm for it.

Brother Gama, thank you, sir. I thank God for your voice and the perspective you can bring. Thank you. Thank you. Thank God.

It was 2018. I stood in this spot, had preached the night before, was preaching this day service. The power of God moved in before I got up there, and just worship swept the house, and it became increasingly apparent that I was not going to preach that morning. That's all right — He don't need me. And Brother Klein was on that platform that day. I don't know if you even remember this. He turned to me and said, "What were you going to preach?" And I gave him a 30-second synopsis, and that Jasper went and got the mic. I don't know if he talked to Brother Cox about it or not — he was superintendent; he probably did. He went and got the mic, pulled me up, and stuck the mic in my face and said, "Tell them." What do you do? You tell them. So I gave you a 30-second synopsis of what I was going to preach that day.

Now, you can think I'm weird or whatever — you might anyhow, no matter my best efforts. A few weeks ago, I was praying about coming down here: "Lord, what do you have me do?" And I felt the Lord tell me, "Finish it." So I don't know anything to do except finish it.

2 Corinthians chapter 4 and verse 7. I will read beginning in verse 7: "We have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us." It's not about us. "We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed; always bearing about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life also of Jesus might be made manifest in our body."

Verse 16: "For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day." Now, this next line kind of tickles me: troubled on every side, perplexed, persecuted, cast down — "for our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen." For the stuff you're going through, the stuff you can see — that's just temporal; that just lasts a little while. But the things which we can't see just yet, those are eternal.

I'm going to hold my title for just a little while. I'll get back to it momentarily. God bless you. You can be seated today.

Life has some unfortunate truths which, from our fleshly perspective, we wish weren't. It seems like this thing of living for God would be so much easier if we just didn't face the realities of life which come to us all. But they do: disappointments, betrayed trusts, painful moments, dark valleys, hard seasons, broken promises, devastating diagnoses, wounded spirits. They are quite simply a part of our existence here, due to the fall of man.

Had Adam never partaken of that one forbidden tree, there would not be any need in our verbiage for words like restore, heal, encourage. If it weren't for sin, there'd be nothing to restore. We wouldn't need healing, and you'd never need encouragement. Our joy would never suffer. Our peace would never be under attack. Our confidence would never waver. Our assurance in the Spirit would never battle the weakness of our flesh. But that's not real life.

The reality is that all of us are going to experience those aspects of life. We will deal with a bitter taste of disappointments in our mouths from time to time. We will wrestle with questions of faith. Our world will be rocked at times by news so shocking that it takes our breath away and rips sleep from our eyes, replacing it with tears above measure. We will have moments when hope seems distant, when victory seems uncertain, and when even kingdom service itself can seem dreary — those moments when pain becomes our constant companion and faithful tormentor, until thoughts that we never dreamed we would entertain become regular invaders in our mind: Maybe I should just quit. It'll probably never get better. Where is God right now? Why is it like this?

I'm asking somebody today to let your guard down for a little while, because I don't know how to break this to you, but we wore masks a long time before COVID was invented. "How you doing?" "Great." Go home and weep in your pillow, because we're so scared to be honest with one another. We feel like it's an admission of failure somehow to say, "I'm hurting right now." We feel like it's somehow a declaration that we don't have any faith if we say, "I'm going through it right now." We're scared to be transparent and admit that life is hard, that ministry is hard, that kingdom service brings us to days when hell whispers and says, "Failure — quit." But it does. Maybe I'll be the one honest enough with a mic to admit that it does.

I am just going to tell you today that pain cannot be ignored. Pain has to be dealt with. Pain demands an answer. And I do believe that God has given me today one answer for your pain.

He was — he's gone now — a treasure in the Missouri district. I speak today of a longtime elder pastor in our district. His name was Gerald Hamlet. He has since gone home to his reward. He was an extraordinarily kind man. He pastored in a town that kind of mocks our state. He pastored in a town that is spelled V-E-R-S-A-I-L-L-E-S. Versailles. Versailles — the elegant French city where Louis the 14th had his palace. Versailles. No, not Missouri: "Versales." Sorry — hooked on phonics worked for us. That's Versailles. He pastored in Versailles for years.

In 2017, Brother and Sister Hamlet endured a very frightening episode. He was driving her home from a doctor's appointment in our capital city of Jefferson City. It's about an hour's drive from where he pastored, and they were on their way. They were well north of 80 at this point — that is probably both his age and the speed he was driving. He was cruising down the four-lane highway there, and they're not really sure what happened. They don't know if he blacked out or if he fainted or he just lost control, or what happened, but his car — he was in the right-hand lane — he crossed a divided highway, four lanes. He crossed the left-hand lane. He went through the median. He came up the other side. He crossed the two lanes of oncoming traffic, down an embankment, across a ditch, through a fence, and came to a stop out in a farmer's field.

Now, God's mercy was very evident that day. They didn't hit a light pole. They didn't hit an oncoming car. They didn't hit a cow or a tree or anything. They just simply came to rest out in that field. But, as you might imagine, that was quite a ride. It shook them up both emotionally and physically, even belted in. They were thrown around the inside of that car. The airbags deployed. Bruises were the order of the day.

A couple days later, I called Brother Hamlet, spoke with him. I was superintendent back then in the district, and I said, "Brother Hamlet, I just want to check on you. I heard about what happened. How are you doing?" He said, "Well, you know, son, when you're as old as I am, you don't bounce back real quick." I was trying to be nice to him. I said, "Oh, Brother Hamlet, you're not old." He said, "Not old? I went to a restaurant a few days ago and ordered a three-minute egg, and they made me pay in advance." Okay, maybe you're old.

But it's what he said next that moved me so profoundly that I just grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled it down, because it spoke to me at a season I was in right then. Perhaps it will to you. He said, "Brother Graham, I appreciate your call. All I can tell you is this: I'm hurting, but only survivors hurt."

And it is what God sent me to tell you here today. You may be hurting, but I've got good news for you: that just means you made it.

All right, here we go. I want you to know that the only reason you're hurting today is that your situation — as dark and as disheartening and as discouraging and as disappointing as it may have been — was not the end of the story. You're still here. Hell's still got a problem on its hands. It didn't write the end of your tale. It did not write the end of your story. It was not your last chapter. You may be hurting, but you survived.

I need somebody to preach with me right now. You made it. You came farther than hell told you would. You're still here. Hell said you'd never be back at another camp. Hell said this last year was so bad you wouldn't even be preaching by this time. Hell told you that before it was over, you'd backslide and quit; you wouldn't even keep your sanity. Well, hell, I'd like to defy your testimony today, because I'm still here. I may be hurting, but I'm still here. I may be wounded, but I'm still here. Watch this: Hell, I'm still a worshipper. I'm still a praiser. I'm still an Apostolic. I'm still here. I need somebody to defy your enemy right now and say, "Hell, you told me it was over, but it's not over. I may be hurting, but I survived." I'm still preaching. I'm still teaching. I'm still loving God. I'm still going on. I'm still a worshipper. You couldn't stop me just because you hurt me.

Pain screams out a testimony today. Listen to what it says: Hell did not win. You're still here. I'm not sure why we think pain is a testimony to our failure. Pain is a testimony to hell's failure. I know what hell wanted to do: he didn't want to hurt you. He came to steal, to kill, and to destroy. And he took his best shot, and all he could do was hurt me. I'm not celebrating my failure. I'm celebrating hell's failure. He tried to take me out of the church, but I'm still here. He tried to get me to quit preaching, but I'm still here. He tried to make me stop worshipping, but I'm still here. I wish somebody would grab this right now. Pain is not a testimony that you failed. Pain is a testimony that hell failed. Hell didn't want to hurt you. He wanted to kill you, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it. He couldn't do it. You're still here. You may be hurting, but only survivors hurt.

I know you don't like the pain, but it beats the alternative. Brother Hamlet told me, he said, "When I woke up that next day in my bed, everything in me hurt — my hair hurt, my teeth hurt, my toenails hurt." But he said, "I had to think: at least I can hurt." Some folks go through that, they wouldn't be hurting because they wouldn't be breathing. I wonder maybe if we could change our attitude just a little bit and say, "I came to this camp hurting, but at least I'm still hurting."

Pain resides with hope. Pain is the companion of courage. Pain walks with faith. Because pain says, "Congratulations, you made it through." Pain said to Brother Hamlet, "Congratulations, you're still here." Pain says to you: you still got a testimony. You've still got a purpose. You've still got a future. You've still got a story to tell. It's not over yet.

How vulnerable do you want me to be? I hope I can say this in a way that doesn't come across wrong. I get it: every time you see me, I'm on some platform, and I don't know if you've got this crazy idea that I just live in this glory world — you know, I can't even take a bath because the water parts when I start to get in. That is not the case. I pastored for 15 years. I'm a recovering pastor. "Hi, my name's Scott, and I was a pastor." "Hi, Scott."

You don't think I ever went through seasons when I wanted to just resign that church? You don't think I ever had days — I had a career waiting on me. I had a full-scholarship computer engineering job waiting on me at Hewlett-Packard. "You did this to me. I wasn't planning on doing this. I was going to be the best saint in somebody's church. I was going to pay good tithe. I wasn't going to cause him no problems." I mean, really, this wasn't my idea. You don't think I ever had days I was like, "I'm done with this. I'm going to quit"? You don't think I had days I was hurt? "Oh, but you preached our camp." I don't care. You don't think I ever had days that I said, "There's got to be something better than this"? You don't think I ever had days that hell told me, just like it's told you: "You probably ought to just back up on what you preach a little bit"?

Hurt, staff challenges, and difficult meetings with folks, and folks threatening to leave the church, and people threatening to lie on me. I had guys sit in my office and tell me, "So I'm going to go spread the word that you and my wife are having an affair." I said, "But you know that's not true." He said, "I know it's not true, but it doesn't matter if they believe it." I had those days. I went through stuff. I bled and hurt. And it would have been pretty easy at times to just chuck this all and tell you, "Just get somebody else to preach at camps. I don't need this. I'll go work on computers. I'll go be a plumber — deal with sewage, but it'll wash off at the end of the day."

Is that too honest for you? Is it too much for you to say that I had days that hell told me, "You could probably grow this church faster if you just quit preaching what you're preaching"? You don't think there were ever days that hell tried to tell me it'd be easier to just walk away from this? "Who cares what the UPCI thinks? Just go do your thing. Be yourself. Life would be easier." And I limped my way into church, and I bled my way to a pulpit. But somewhere along the way, I'm so glad I can look at the enemy and say: "Yeah, you hurt me. Yes, you wounded me. Yes, I got wounds in the house of my friends. Yes, I'm bearing some scars. But I'd like hell to take notice: it is July the 2nd. I'm in Tioga, Louisiana, and I'm still preaching. And I'm still here. I may have been hurting, but I'm a survivor. I'm a survivor."

Come on, somebody square up with hell and say: "Yes, you hurt me, but you didn't kill me. Yes, it's been tough, but it's not over. Yes, I've been wounded, but I still have my faith. I still believe I've got a purpose. I may be hurting, but only survivors hurt."

I wish somebody would confuse hell right now. I dare somebody that came to this camp out of the most painful season of your life to confuse hell right now and say, "Take this. It doesn't mean I'm healed. It doesn't mean it's over. I'm still in the middle of it. I don't know what I'm going to go home to, but I'm still preaching, and I'm still faithful, and I'm still saved, and I'm still on my way to heaven. I still survived."

Brother Stern, I celebrate with you. My heart hurt for you so bad when you had to say goodbye to your beloved wife — she battled cancer, and we prayed all over the fellowship. And I can't explain God's ways. I don't know why she wasn't healed, but I thank God he's still there, and his hands are still raised. Don't tell me it didn't hurt — but he survived. He's still preaching, still pastoring, still leading a district. You've got your own sword to tell somebody: confuse hell right now. Give a praise that doesn't make any sense. Get out in the aisle and do something that hell told you you'd never do again.

Brother Sully, I don't understand why that's your transport. I don't understand why you've got to get around in that thing. I know you're going to come dancing out of it one day on the other side. But here's what I know: you survived. It didn't take your faithfulness. It didn't take your praise. I wish a survivor would lift a sound of victory in this place for just about 20 seconds.

You can think I'm just trying to milk this if you want, but I wish one of you young men would run a lap for him. He can't run it right now. I wish one of you young men would take off and run a lap for him. This one's for you, my brother. I survived. I survived. I survived. I survived. I'm still here. I'm still an Apostolic. I'm still faithful. I still love God. I'm still singing. I'm still shouting. I'm still involved in the kingdom.

It's not over just because I hurt. It's still going because I hurt. If I wasn't hurting, I'd have no hope left. But because I hurt, I still see a tomorrow. I still see a healing coming. I still see a miracle in my future. Yeah, it hurts, and I wish it hadn't happened, and I'd rather not go through it, and it's kind of miserable. But even though I can't demonstrate my victory over my pain yet, I could sure enough show you my victory through my pain. Because even though it hurts, only survivors hurt.

Hell told me he'd stop my worship. He was wrong. Hell told me I was all alone. He was wrong. Hell told me it was over. He was wrong. Hell told me I had nothing left. He was wrong. I'm still here.

See, this is what Paul was saying. I read it to you out of 2 Corinthians 4: "Troubled on every side" — I'm hurting, yet not distressed; I survived. "We are perplexed" — I'm hurting, but not in despair; I survived. "Persecuted" — I'm hurting, but not forsaken; I survived. "Cast down" — I'm hurting, but not destroyed. It's not over. There's still a tomorrow. I still have faith. I still have faith. I still have faith. God can. God will. God is. It's not over just because I'm hurting.

In fact, I would go so far as to say that pain refines me. Pain purifies me. Pain matures me. I'm a better man today because of my pain. My prayer life is better today because of my pain. I'm closer to God today because of my pain. I don't like it, but when I compare it to what God is doing in me, then this light affliction is working out something a lot better on the other side, my brothers and sisters. And when I stand before Him on that day, and the eternal purpose has been made manifest, and faith has become sight, I'm going to throw back my head and I'm going to sing: "It will be worth it all when we see Jesus. Life's trials will seem so small when we see Christ. One glimpse of His dear face, all sorrow will erase. So bravely run this race till we see Christ."

You are a survivor.

The good news is this, however — I'm going to change tone here. The good news is this: you're not running alone. Bravely run this race, but you're not running alone. I know you're going to think this strange, but you be seated just a minute. I know how I want to minister today.

His name is shrouded in infamy. No one today names a son after him. You're going to search far and wide to find a baby born in 2026 named Ichabod. I mean, who names a child "no glory"? He had a dark legacy. The sad thing is, it didn't have to be that way. His grandfather was Eli, the high priest — only the seventh in Israel's history. But Eli's son Phinehas was a corrupt man. He was wicked and vile. And so the judgment of God was pronounced against him and carried out in a battle against the Philistines. While this little boy was yet in his mother's womb, during a disastrous day for the nation, his father and his uncle Hophni were killed in battle. And, of even more terrible consequence, the ark of the covenant was stolen by the enemy. When word of this horror returned, the babe's grandfather Eli fell over backwards off a bench where he sat and died of a broken neck. And then the baby's mother died in childbirth. That is a bad day. Consider it: his father, his uncle, his grandfather, and now his mother have all died on the same day that the ark was seized by the Philistines.

It's really not much of a surprise, then, that the unnamed midwife named him as she did: Ichabod. I know we sanitize it a little bit and say, "Well, the glory has departed." It really just means "no glory." But it's more than a statement. When you read it and study it, it's a lamentation. His name was "no glory." It's a tough name to carry. You don't like your name? Try to imagine being called "No Glory" all your life. And despite the fact he had nothing to do with these developments, he was labeled by that hurt. He wore the disappointments of his yesterdays all his life. His name recalled and recounted the disaster of his past every time it was breathed. Every time someone called out, those nearby shivered. It was a horrid label to wear. Such was the path that he journeyed through life from the moment his first breath is ever recorded. And even though he is the grandson of the high priest, we read nothing else about his life from there on.

But much to my surprise — and I'm not sure how I missed it for so many years — I noted a while back that Ichabod had a brother. In 1 Samuel 14, we read of King Saul resting under a pomegranate tree with several of his men. And in the listing of them, we read this — 1 Samuel 14, verses 2 and 3: "And Saul tarried in the uttermost part of Gibeah under a pomegranate tree which is in Migron: and the people that were with him were about six hundred men. And Ahiah, the son of Ahitub, Ichabod's brother, the son of Phinehas, the son of Eli, the LORD's priest in Shiloh, wearing an ephod. And the people knew not that Jonathan was gone."

Did you see it there? Ichabod's brother. Now, he had to be older, because his mom and dad died on the day he was born. So this is an older brother, born before "no glory" ever drew a breath. Ahitub's son is recorded as wearing the ephod as the high priest. Eli's great-grandson was now the high priest, but he would have followed Ahitub. So I'm talking about Ichabod's brother, who at one point was the high priest in the nation. But what was amazing to me was what his name means. And so I thought, man, you've got a kid brother named Ichabod — I hope your name's at least Bob or something.

And so I grabbed a book. Now, for those of you that are younger, that's a physical object with pages. I didn't get this from a Google search. I didn't get this from AI. I had a young person ask a while back — they were dead serious, they had no clue; young people are kind of dense — they said, "Brother Graham, did you have AI when you were our age?" I looked at them and said, "Yes — actual intelligence." I didn't search this on social media. I pulled a book off my shelf. It's a reputable resource, and I read what Ahitub's name means. And when I read it, I got clean up out of my chair. I said, "Oh, surely not." So I ran and got another book. I looked it up elsewhere. I got four resource books and compared notes, and every one of them agrees that before "no glory" ever drew a breath, he had an older brother whose name means "my brother is good."

You want to know why you don't want to get away from the church every time you hurt? Because you need a brother to come up and put an arm around your shoulder and say, "Hell, you might see there's nothing good in him, but I see potential in him. I see a future for him. I see a miracle for him. My brother is good." I'm just telling somebody here today: don't you isolate yourself when you get to hurting, because you need the church. This is where somebody will come up next to you and say, "Hell, I know you've been beating him to a pulp, but I believe in him. I love him. I'm praying for him. I'll stand with him. My brother is good." That's what a brother does. A true brother does not get on social media and tear you apart when you're hurting. A true brother comes alongside you and says, "My brother is good."

Jeff, where you at? Jeff, where you at? Okay, there you are. You mind coming up here? I won't tell — I won't embarrass you at all. I promise I won't. I love this man. He was part of our district. He was part of our district. And there was a season when hell was poking him in the chest, saying there's no glory left there, there's no future left there — am I right? — there's no ministry left there. Somebody cut him off at the roots and cast him aside. He's made some mistakes and got in some trouble.

...and some regrets, and he's older. I mean, the enemy was screaming at that man as loud as hell knew how to put its voice to it. But I thank God there were some men that came alongside him and said, "Hell, that's not what I see. That's not what I see." And today he's pastoring 100 people north of here, about an hour, looking to build a new building. You want to know why? Because somebody said, "It's not over just because you're hurting. It's not over just because there's pain. You survived. You survived." Come on, somebody get with a brother and tell him, "You survived." Somebody look at your brother and say, "You're going to make it. You're going to make it. You're going to make it." We need one another. There's enough voices screaming "Ichabod" at us. We need an Ahitub. Hallelujah.

I'm off my notes right now. That's a scary place to be.

When I grew up — you be seated just a minute, and I'll get done right here; I know you've been here a while — when I grew up in southern Illinois, the little town I grew up in, Grayville, the mighty metroplex, my class had twin brothers in it: Ronnie and Donnie Linkenfelter, if they ever happen to hear this. Donnie was left-handed; Ronnie was right-handed. I point that out only because it made their fights more entertaining. And they fought every day. Every day. They'd fight over which direction the sun came up. They'd fight — I mean, they'd fight every day.

So we were in P.E., physical education class, and they got in a fight in the locker room. I don't know about what — didn't matter. They were rolling around the floor, pounding on each other. They did this every day. And we went out to P.E. that day, and our coach had us play a game lovingly called "kill ball." It's dodgeball with an attitude. Ronnie and Donnie are on opposite teams, as would be expected. And we had a guy in our class — I will not mention his name, because he might hear it. Four of the happiest years of his life were first grade. One of the few guys that could, you know, drive himself to junior high. He was bigger than all of us, a better athlete than all of us. You know, he was scouted as a pitcher by the St. Louis Cardinals at one point. Never made it, but he was at least scouted by them. He had that kind of arm. And we played this game with these little rubber balls that — oh, man — put the fear of God in you. That guy would run out, the big guy, and pick up one of those balls, and I'd just start praying and repenting of stuff, because I might be heading to heaven soon.

And I saw, in that game, as it just turned into chaos all over the gym, I saw that big old bruiser — I'll call him Bob — I saw him sneak up on Ronnie Linkenfelter's blind side, and from no further than Brother Stern is, he reared up and threw his best four-seam fastball with that ball, and caught Ronnie on the side of the head, lifted him off his feet, and slid him across the floor.

Now, my expectation would have been that Donnie would have come up and received a cash offering for that guy. I mean, after all, that's what he tried to do moments ago back in the locker room — that's what he was aiming for. I watched the most amazing thing. I watched Donnie run across that room and jump on top of that big old bruiser, his feet weren't even on the floor, hanging on top of him, pounding him on the head, saying, "Leave him alone! That's my brother! That's my brother! That's my brother! Get your hands off him! Stop that!"

I wish to God, when one of us is hurting, instead of tearing him down, we'd run and jump on hell and say, "Get your hands off him! That's my brother! That's my brother! And my brother is good! You might call him Ichabod, but my brother is good. You might say there's no glory there — my brother is good. You might say he doesn't have a future, but my brother is good."

Stand with me right now. Every survivor ought to stand. Every hurting person ought to stand. And here we go — I'm going to be done right here. Every hurting person in this house, for the next few minutes, should become a worshipper. Why? Because you're still here. And every hurting person in this house should have a brother or a sister that would walk up next to you and say, "I'm going to be a worshipper with you, because my brother is good."

So I'm going to try something. I may regret this. What'd you say? I may go stump-bumping or bump-stumping, or whatever you call it. I'm going to try. Would you please take the mask off? Would you please take the mask off? We're among friends. No, no, no — we're among family. You're my brother.

So if you're hurting today — now, I know we all find something — if you're hurting today, if I'm going to be real bold here: if you're willing to acknowledge that the reason this old boy did not get to finish this in 2018 was because you were going to be here today, and God needed you to hear that pain is hell's failure, not yours — I dare you. I need you to just work your way out of your seat right now. Right now. Right now. And just come walking up the front of this place. You're not backsliding. You're not a failure. Pain is not your failure. Pain is hell's failure. I want you to come up to the front of this place. That's it, sis. Don't be bashful about that. And when you come — I'm sorry, but I don't want you to come weeping right now. Right now, we're celebrating. We are celebrating the fact that we're still here. Come on. Quick, quick, quick, quick. Hurting people, come up front.

And then I need every Ichabod to have an Ahitub. I need everybody in this house to have a brother or sister that walks out of your seat and comes up here and gets up next to them and puts an arm around their shoulder and says, "I just want you to know: I believe in you. I'm here for you. I'm praying for you." Come on in. Don't stop in the aisles. Please come on in. Don't stop in the aisles. There's others wanting to come. Come on. I need an Ahitub to come up. I've got a young lady standing right here that needs a sister with her. I've got a brother standing right here that needs an Ahitub to come up next to him and say, "I'm for you. I believe in you. You're going to be okay. It's not over. You're going to make it."

Would you lift your voice and celebrate your survival?