I was with a mission team from our church in Monrovia, Liberia, on the west coast of Africa. We were worshipping with one of the largest churches in the city, and they had seated us in the front two rows as special guests.

The service began with drums beating and the piano joyfully echoing “Christ the Lord is Risen Today.” The African choir processed down the aisles, dressed in vibrant native fabrics. The women came down one aisle in matching dresses, and the men came down the other in coordinating shirts.

I turned around to watch the entire procession make its way forward—but it wasn’t just the choir that captivated me. The congregation was waving white handkerchiefs and cheering with unrestrained joy. This was a day to celebrate—and celebrate they did.

Tears filled my eyes as I remembered the last time I had seen white handkerchiefs waving wildly. Back then, I dreaded the sight.

When fans waved white “Homer Hankies,” it meant the Minnesota Twins had just scored against my Atlanta Braves in the 1991 World Series.

In that unforgettable series—later called one of the greatest of all time—every game was a nail-biter. Five games were decided by a single run, four in the final at-bat, and three went into extra innings. Game seven was scoreless through nine innings before Minnesota won 1–0 in the tenth. Out came the Homer Hankies all across the stadium as we watched, heartbroken, from Atlanta.

Back then, the white hankies meant defeat.

But here in Liberia, those white handkerchiefs meant something entirely different.

They meant victory.

Jesus’ death on the cross and His resurrection meant victory over sin, death, guilt, grief, and hopelessness. And this time, I didn’t want to turn away—I wanted my own handkerchief to wave alongside theirs.

I loved the way the congregation celebrated with such passion and joy. In America, we cheer like that for our sports teams. But there, they were cheering for the greatest victory of all time.

And maybe that’s what stayed with me most.

Not just the music. Not just the color. Not even the joy.

But the reminder that the victory we celebrate on Easter isn’t meant to be observed quietly—it’s meant to be lived out loudly, joyfully, and without hesitation.

Because the tomb is empty, and that changes everything.