THE LINC COLLECTIVE

Scriptures:
Mark 5:21–43; Matthew 19:13–14; John 1:11–12; 2 Timothy 1:7; Ephesians 5:14

Come Alive, Child

“Talitha koum.” Little girl, get up.

There are moments in Scripture that feel less like stories and more like invitations. Mark 5 is one of them. Jairus’ daughter lies motionless. The room is filled with noise—wailing, opinions, conclusions. Outside, the narrative is settled: It’s over. Inside, Jesus steps into the grief and says something audacious: “The child is not dead but asleep.”

Could it be that this miracle is not only about resurrection—but about awakening?

We often read this story as proof that Jesus raises the dead. And He does. But look closer at His language. He does not argue with death. He does not shout at darkness. He simply takes her by the hand and speaks to her identity: Little girl… get up.

Jesus speaks to the child.

And perhaps this is where the Spirit lingers today—with the children inside of us.

Somewhere along the way, many of us stopped remembering who we were between zero and seven. The formative years. The fearless years. The years of imagination, trust, and unfiltered belief. Not because they were all perfect. But because life layered over them. Responsibility. Disappointment. Trauma. Expectations. Survival.

We learned how to adult. And somewhere in the process, the child went quiet.

The enemy understands something we often forget: if he can silence the child, he can shrink the Kingdom. Because Jesus said, “Let the children come to me, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” Childlikeness is not immaturity—it is access. It is the doorway to inheritance.

So what does Jesus say to Jairus in the chaos? “Do not be afraid. Just believe.”

This is the language of childhood faith.

It’s simple—but not simplistic. It cuts through the noise of analysis, the weight of reports, the pressure of outcomes. Do not be afraid. Fear is not your inheritance. “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind.”

Fear is loud. Faith is often quiet. But faith has authority.

Notice what Jesus does next. He chooses who gets to walk with Him into the miracle. Peter. James. John. Mom. Dad. Not the doubters. Not the crowd. Not the noise.

Who you walk with matters. Especially in crisis.

Because who you let into your next crisis will help determine what rises.

Faith is not sustained in environments saturated with unbelief. It doesn’t make us superior; it makes us intentional. If the Kingdom is accessed by childlike faith, then we must guard the atmosphere around our hearts—and around our homes.

Generational narratives try to tell us what is inevitable. “That’s just how teenagers are.” “That’s just what marriage becomes.” “That’s just our family story.”

But the Gospel interrupts inevitability.

We do not serve a God of the natural progression—we serve a God of supernatural redemption. From His fullness we receive grace upon grace, blessing upon blessing. The past may explain you, but it does not define you.

And then Jesus enters the room.

His presence is there. His hand touches her. But she does not rise until He speaks.

There is something profound here. We can sit in rooms filled with God’s presence. We can sense Him, sing to Him, even feel His touch. But life awakens when we respond to His Word.

“Talitha koum.”

This was not a performance. It was personal. He spoke in her language. He honored her story. He called her by who she was.

And maybe today He is not shouting at your failures. He is not debating your disappointment. He is not overwhelmed by your history. He is speaking to the sleeping child within you.

Little dreamer, get up.
Little forgiver, get up.
Little believer, get up.

That part of you that once trusted easily. That once imagined boldly. That once believed God could do anything. That part of you that got bruised when love broke. That tucked away its passion when expectation crushed it. That decided it was safer to manage life than to marvel at it.

Jesus is not angry at your coping. But He is inviting you beyond it.

Ephesians says, “Awake, O sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” Not strive, not prove, not perform—awake.

Coming alive as a child again does not mean becoming naive. It means becoming surrendered. It means letting God gently sift through the layers we’ve built and reminding us who we were when we first dreamed with Him.

The crowd laughed at Jesus. They always laugh at resurrection language. They laugh at hope that refuses to die. They laugh at faith that contradicts the facts.

But heaven was not laughing. Heaven was partnering.

“Talitha koum.”

This is not just a historical miracle; it is a present invitation.

If your heart feels dormant—if your faith feels more like memory than fire—if your dreams feel archived—hear Him.

He is not asking you to pretend the pain didn’t happen. He is asking you to believe it does not get the final word.

Little child, get up.

Don’t be afraid. Just believe.

The Kingdom belongs to such as these.