Please note: This is a work of fiction. Historically and truth based, but still fiction.

Thomas wept. It felt like days of weeping. The smell of the streets were woven into his clothes, blood staining the tip of his robe. His best friend’s blood had stained his robe as Thomas followed the man being forced to carry the wood that would be used to murder him.

The man was tortured. His blood covered the streets. Thomas saw his back all torn up and nausea hit immediately. He could see bone and where his body was destroyed.

It was the soldiers that ultimately got to Thomas. That’s where the fear came strong. If they did that to Jesus, Thomas could only imagine what they’d do to him.

So he ran. He ran fast, he ran hard. He looked for a place to hide and that’s when the doubt came. Jesus could stop them. He knew Jesus could. He could stop them. Why didn’t he? He could have stopped it all.

Maybe he wasn’t who he said he was? The question scared him more than the opposite being true so he quickly dismissed it.

He came to the upper room and walked in to see several other disciples there. Mary was there too. He couldn’t face her. He left. Again. Running seemed to be what he was best at doing at the moment. He ran. He ran all the way to Bethany, straight to Lazarus’s house and straight to the resurrected man himself.

And he told Lazarus everything that had happened.

“Thomas you need to go back.” Lazarus said, “you need to be with everyone else.”

But Thomas stayed. He stayed one more day. He stayed, away from everyone else, away from the noise of Jerusalem. An almost 2 hour walk away.

He had ran it in an hour.

The blisters and cuts on his feet made walking anymore painful, so Lazarus kindly gave him a horse and on Sunday he rode back to Jerusalem.

When he got there the other disciples had lost their minds. Now, he didn’t actually believe that, but he definitely thought it.

They told him that they’d seem him. They told him He was alive. Part of Thomas wanted to believe them but he still said the words that would be infamously attached to him for all eternity.

He had to touch his hands and feet to fully believe their story. They tried to convince him for a week, but the image of the rib bone showing on Jesus’s back was imprinted into his brain. The blood was still dry on his robe and he had noticed it stained his toenails and sandals as well. And so Thomas wept. He wept and ignored everyone else for a week.

He wept uncontrollably. The disciples tried consoling him, but really there was only one man who could.

A week later, they were all locked in a room together. They were hiding from the religious leaders and Romans. Their claim of Jesus’s resserection was causing uproar.

Locked on that room, they were singing songs of David. They sang “Lift up your heads, O gates! And lift them up, O ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in.”

Thomas looked up. The words echoed in the room like a declaration of war. Something felt new. The light was coming through the window and sun rays beaming into the room were like banners to the heavens and the glory of God. Thomas felt a firm, yet soft touch on his shoulder. A calloused hand moved the fabric as a familiar voice said,

“Peace be with you”

Thomas looked at the hand, his eyes just staring for two seconds as he registered what he was seeing. The hole he expected to be there surely was there, the hole in whose hands he was hoping they’d be in.

He turned around, the holey hand falling into Thomas’s hand, his finger grazing the mark of the nail in the wound.

“Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe.”

Thomas put his finger exactly where Jesus told him, exactly where Jesus’s body had been fastened to the cross.

One hand still touching the hole, Thomas reached out to Jesus’ side. His whole hand touched it. He was flesh and blood, this man. Truly there. Not a ghost. Alive and well.

Like Lazarus, the man who had harbored Thomas, when all seemed lost, Thomas’s best friend had been risen from death. He looked straight at Jesus’ face for the first time and fell at his feet, his hands clutching them as he bowed. His lips grazed the top of Jesus’s feet like Mary had done weeks earlier.

Thomas said to Him, “My Lord and my God!”

Jesus knelt down and raised Thomas’s face up. A smile was there on his lips, which made Thomas grin, joy filling his whole body.

“Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

There was no condemnation in his voice. Thomas loved that about him. Every doubt of who this man was was erased. He was the Messiah. He was the Messiah and he was the Son of God.

He was the King of Glory. He was the King of Glory that would send this disciple who was no longer doubtful or fearful to the ends of the Earth to share with everyone he knew that this man had risen. Thomas had doubted but had been joyfully incorrect in his doubt. He would tell them how he touched the holes and touched his side. He’d seen the scars from the crown of thorns.

He’d seen Jesus’ face. He had touched his hands and feet and side and Jesus was alive and well, living and breathing and pursuing.

He was alive.

Mary knew.

She knew the minute she looked into his eyes at dinner that His time had come. He was more vague than usual…which was saying something. He was playing with His cup like He did when He was keeping something to Himself. She ate the bread and drank the wine, as they all did.

She was His mom. She knew Him well. He was her baby boy. She had spent years listening to and figuring out what He was saying. Today the metaphors were mixed with literalism. She understood 85% of what He was communicating. Her brilliant child, the brilliant child of an illiterate mother.

She knew His brilliance was a heavenly gift. His hours spent at the synagogue in Nazareth as a child were spent well, though His rabbi was unimpressed with His suggestions as He became a teenager and started challenging his views. Jesus was always right. There was no pride in His rightness, He asked questions in humility and challenged respectfully. She and Joseph had always been proud of Him after particularly heated debates.

She had bandaged Him as a child. She had wiped His 6 year old brow after He was accidently hit in the face by a tree. She knew what it looked like when He was protecting His flock. The man had been shepharding since He was 3, though at that point it was mostly His friends and toys. Tonight, His eyes were laser focused on the disciples that He knew would be impacted the most, just as He did when He worked on delicate portions of His carpentry.

She loved God's wisdom in giving Him an earthly mom and dad. Her eyes noticed the scar on His thumb, gripping the cup of wine, pressing into it as if to carve a hole into the hard surface. A memory of when He hammered His first nail into a table entered her mind -the picture of Him and Joseph bending over the table and Jesus yelling in pain as the nail went through His thumb.

She remembered the terror she felt hearing His scream and then the guilt she and Joseph felt. She remembered them letting out a sigh of relief when they realized the wound wasn't as bad as it looked. The scar still would hold the memory, but no longer the guilt of not protecting His wellbeing as a child. Accidents happened after all.

She watched as He knelt to wash his disciples’ feet. She smiled as shock covered their faces and protest filled their lungs. His kind, firm response reminded her of Joseph’s methods of disciplining his sons. After He was done with His disciples, His eyes met hers. Tears filled her eyes as He ushered her over.

It was her turn.

She sat beside Him, rather than in front of Him, her hands gripping His as she tried to wiggle the rag out of His hands. Her protest would be more subtle.

“It's my job to wash your feet,” she said to Him. He smiled, gripping the cloth and said, “Eema, it's my turn to wash yours.” His hands gently moved the towel to wash her feet. His fingers carved out the dirt that had caked on the bottom, well practiced from when He was carving invisible holes into his wine cup.

He squeezed her feet three times as she had done with His when she was done cleaning them as a child. Three squeezes that meant “I love you.”

The water was cold and reminded her of Passover when He was 15. It was one of their more bizarre Passovers. She had burnt their lamb and Joseph was healing from a wound he got lifting bricks for an aqueduct. Jesus and Jude had helped significantly with preparations because Joseph couldn't.

They were hot and sweaty and came into the house with thick dirt caked on their toes, along with who knows what else, their teenage stench filling the small house. Their cousin John groaned as he helped his mother, Elizabeth, find a spot to sit. Ironically, Jesus would groan, in humor, as an adult upwind from John as he ministered to people.

Joseph saw her face as the boys walked in the house and told them to stop walking. Jesus stopped immediately…Jude, not so much. His feet coated dirt on some newly cleaned floor. Joseph grabbed a bucket and a towel and had the two boys sit. He knelt down to clean their feet, despite how painful it was for him to do so. She knew his pain-filled smile well and knew not to disrupt this moment between him and the boys. She watched with a grin as her husband taught them humility and honor.

The teenage boys squealed as Joseph tickled their feet just a little, reminding their mother of their belly laughs when they were toddlers. He squeezed their feet three times to remind them of his love. They heard her chuckle and mischief entered their faces. She was busy preparing the bitter herbs when all of the sudden, she felt a cold sensation on her shoulders.

She turned around quickly, facing Joseph who had put the cold, wet, muddy towel on her shoulders. He moved it down to her waist, dragging mud down her already dirty dress and pulled her close, eventually dropping the rag to grab her hands and waist to dance with her much to the delight of the children and her cousin Elizabeth. Elizabeth was well over the age where she could dance no longer.

Mary laughed and, in concern, said, “Joseph, you have to rest! Your leg!!”

But Joseph replied, his voice absent of pain as he hobbled in the kitchen, “Mary, we aren't slaves! God saved us!”

Jesus and Jude soon joined in and the rest of their family soon also joined, John helping his mother dance slowly near her chair. The neighbors heard the racket and came over. Upon finding out that their lamb was burnt and other elements of the meal had problems as well, the neighbors insisted upon the family joining their Sedar.

Mary and Joseph's family would be in charge of celebration.

“Make sure we dance like your ancestor David,” was the neighbors’ instruction. It was one of her favorite Passovers.

Passover had always been Jesus’s favorite.

In the dark, candle-lit upper room, Jesus' eyes rested on hers. His hands stopped scrubbing for a second as the grief settled on the two of them. The tears overcame the brims of her eyes as He looked at her. He knew she knew. Words had no purpose.

“Eema.” His soft voice began to speak, emotion filling it as He beheld the woman who was blessed among women. She knew He wasn’t nervous or anxious, just aware of the effects of whatever was going to happen on the people He loved.

She put her hand on His mouth to quiet Him and said “Son, you were sent here for such a time as this, if you perish, you perish. But you will save our people,” echoing Mordecai's instructions to Esther.

Jesus nodded, tears rolling down His face, and then whispered “Stay with John.”

Through broken speech, filled with salty tears, the Spirit entered her and she muttered, “can I pray for you?” He wept with a small smile and nodded, His rough hands still on her feet, scrubbing underneath her toe nails. Her feet would be the cleanest of all. His head leaned on her shoulder, her hands laid on His.

She felt His warm tears anoint her feet and mix with the cold water in the basin as she prayed over Him. For courage, obedience, strength, and victory. She knew it would all come to pass and her prayers were mostly for herself and not Him. But she prayed anyway.

“Thank you Eema.” He said, wiping His tears off her feet and helping her stand. She hugged Him and said, “Thank you, Yeshua. Thank you for redeeming us. Joseph would be proud.”

She thought of the day her husband had died as Jesus helped her back to her chair. Joseph’s death had rocked their family. Luckily the children were all grown at that point and those except Jesus were married and starting their own families. Joseph was the best grandfather and spoiled the grandkids in the best ways possible. She remembered the day he got sick. Jesus had come running with him from their workshop, not in a panic but certainly with grief. He carried a lot as a young adult. He helped Joseph to his bed and pulled a blanket over him.

She had brought water and food, but Joseph's illness was strong and by the next day he had gone to be with the Father. It was sudden and quick. Jesus had been there the whole time, his 24 year old self a pillar to his earthly father. The bond the two of them had was something she was incredibly thankful for.

It was Jesus’s first on-earth experience with sudden death excluding the occasional miscarriage from an aunt or cousin or sibling. It was her first experience with the death of someone she loved more than herself, whose heart she shared and who she was one with. The grief was almost unbearable.

She tried to stay noble and strong for her son as He was contemplating His own death, that night He washed her feet. She stayed strong, but in reality she knew He knew she was dying inside, wanting to do everything within her power to stop what was about to happen. Her heart was anxious, the fear beginning to overwhelm her. She knew it would be big, just not how big.

He invited His disciples to come pray with Him. She smiled. Joseph loved the garden of Gethsemane. When they came to Jerusalem for Passover, the two of them would wake early and walk the garden, often recounting the memories they had of the children growing up that they held close to their hearts. His birth and watching Him teach at the temple in Jerusalem were among their favorites. As His disciples got ready, Jesus approached her privately.

“Eema. The next time we see each other I won't look the same. You have to stay with John. Just stay with him,” His voice catching on the lump in His throat.

“I'll stay with John when he comes back. I promise. Jesus, what are they going to do to you?”

“I-Eema, I will rise in three days. I will rise. I promise you.”

He turned and went to join his friends. He'll rise in three days? What was that supposed to mean? Questions entered her mind as she fell asleep.

A few hours later, in the dead of night, His friends came into the room, distraught. “They've taken Him. He's been arrested Judas- Judas… “ John stuttered, the words escaping him as the betrayal set in.

Mary put a hand on his shoulder and said, “John, start over and tell me everything.” She said and he nodded, catching his breath. He explained everything to them, or rather what his traumatized human brain could remember. Mary's hands shook as she said, “take me to Him. He told me to stay with you.”

John nodded and took her hand. Together they navigated the streets of Jerusalem and found their way to the Temple courts. By the time they got there He was already on trial and thus, Mary could not see Him. John and Peter, however, could enter and watch. Exhausted, Mary sat outside, listening to the chatter of the people walking by, hearing what they were saying about Him. Her heart shattered as she recognized the enemy turning the hearts of men away from Him. She sat for hours and waited for John and Peter.

When they emerged she recognized the shock on their faces. Shock and guilt on Peter's. Shock and grief on John's.

“Mary.” John said when he saw her, “Mary, they're going to beat Him publicly. I can't let you see that.” His quiet voice suddenly became protective. The protectiveness was a distraction for him. She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “He needs me.” The determination in her voice spoke to him with such force, it broke through the distraction. She knew He didn’t need her as much as she needed Him. She leaned on John and they grabbed Peter's hand. A rooster crowed and suddenly she knew why Peter felt guilty.

As they watched the beating of her son, Mary's eyes were focused on his, muttering under her breath, “just keep your eyes on me. Just keep them on me and your Father.” John squeezed her closer to Him as people crowded around them to see what was going on. With every hit she let out a wail. Her legs began to collapse and soon John's arms were the only things supporting her to stand.

The Temple soldiers then grabbed Him and took Him away toward the Roman courts.

“John, where are they taking Him?” she said, panicked.

“Probably to Pilate. Mary, I have to get you somewhere safe.”

“I need to be with Him.”

John guided her to a step and they sat down. She looked up at him, streaks of tears were on his dirty face and his eyes were so red. She grabbed a piece of her head covering and wiped his face. She could tell he wanted to plead with her to let him take her somewhere but as they got up to leave, she saw Him again. Her baby in chains being dragged by a soldier towards Herod's palace. Peter ran toward Him but he was too slow as the soldier pushed Jesus on quickly.

John and Mary, having no energy to move after seeing Him again, sat down again. And waited. And waited.And waited.

And then Mary saw Pilate come out with Jesus and Barabbas. A crowd came and called for Barrabas to be released instead of her son. A murderer instead of the Bread of Life. She watched as they beat Him again, His skin tearing. John held her back as she lunged to get to Him, crowds mocking Him also mocking her. John’s own mother had found them and was holding him back.

Through the pushing and shoving of the crowd, Mary and John were separated.

By 7am, Jesus had been sentenced to crucifixion. Mary, alone in the crowd, followed Him with her eyes to the middle of town. The cruelness of the soldiers was evident and they made Him carry his cross the whole way until He couldn't carry it any longer.

John. His name filled her mind. Where was he? She was supposed to stay with him. But her eyes were distracted once more with her son, looking at her in pain. She started approaching Him only to feel a hand on hers holding her back. She turned to see John and his mom.

“Mary. They're going to Golgotha.” John whispered. His kind, fiercely loving heart was barely able to speak the words. He led her toward the hill, through the crowd, arriving before Jesus. He approached a guard on the hill next to the crucifixion site.

“This is Jesus' mother.” He said to the guard. The guard let the three of them pass through to get closer to where they would put Him. John used his body to cover her eyes as Jesus was nailed to the cross. His screams pierced the air straight to her heart. “My baby. My baby,“ she screamed. John moved her further away as the cross finished its ascent. The women fell to the ground upon seeing Him. John’s legs wouldn’t allow him to. James joined them, grabbing his mother.

Mary looked at Jesus’s face, dripping with blood as the crown of thorns dug deeper anytime He moved His head. Her eyes glazed over His shoulders, the marks from the whippings and beatings covering every inch. His body broken apart and His blood spilt. Her eyes moved to His thumb. She could see the white of His scar. A small moment of peace before her eyes, blurry with tears, glazed over the rest of the body of the son she scrubbed and cleaned as a toddler.

Midday, darkness settled in. Mary couldn’t scream anymore, her throat hoarse and sore. The tears still flowed uncontrollably.

“Father forgive them…”

His words echoed in her soul. The evidence of His divinity was clear to her at that moment. His words were filled with strength, fighting through the difficulty He had breathing. She looked at His face and saw her son, her son that loved her. He was her beloved son that she was pleased with. Her son forgave His enemies immediately. A pride entered her sweet heart.

Each time He spoke, another small moment of peace covered her soul. Then she would glance at His body and the panic, grief, and anguish would settle upon her again.

Then He looked straight at her. Her eyes met His. His chestnut eyes always seemed to gleam with joy, even when in pain. His mouth opened and He said, “Dear woman, here is your son.” His eyes glanced at John. “Here is your mother.” John, who had still been standing in strength, ever a son of thunder, fell to the ground and clutched Mary close as James clutched their mom closer. Mary was John's responsibility now.

The guards allowed her to inch close enough to touch Jesus. Her fingers touched His feet, the rim of the nail hitting her palm. The blood from the nail smeared on her fingers as she squeezed His feet thrice as gently as she could. His feet winced, but she knew a smile was on His face.

I love you.

They listened, weeping and shaking, in total shock and grief as this man who shook the world spoke his last words.

“Into your hands I commit my Spirit.”

Mary watched the life leave His body as it had done with Joseph. His body stilling as it finally rested, and she wailed a deafening cry. A cry to match no other. And there they sat as the earth shook around them. Chaos ensued.

For hours.

“Mary.” John whispered softly at her side, eventually, his voice as hoarse as hers was. He tried to pull her up.

“I can't go.”

“You need to be brought somewhere safe.”

“I'm safe with Him.”

“Mary, I'll come back. Please let me take you somewhere safe.”

Reluctantly the shocked, grieving mother agreed. As he got her to a home those closest to Him were all gathered in, Mary saw John dash out back to the site. Soon he was back and collapsed on the floor next to her.

“Joseph of Arimethia is burying Him.” he whispered to her. She nodded.

“What now?” Someone said and discussion ensued. Argument. Discussion.

Mary's voice spoke through the grief and chaos, wisdom touching her lips. She knew not where the peace in her voice came from as she spoke:

“Have faith, dear children.”

His promise to her shook her mind. He will rise. She took a breath as hope filled her. Hope and doubt. She joined the other women in preparing spices for His burial.

Three days later, she lifted herself up off the ground. The Sabbath was over and the time for work was here. Her body was weak so she did not join the women who went to finish the burial process. She instead prepared food, food she likely wouldn’t have the stomach to eat but she wanted to nourish the men and women she was with.

Soon, the women came rushing in, telling them all that the stone was rolled away. Mary sat, her heart filled with joy. Joy and hunger. She knew the men didn’t believe them, but she did. Her eyes rolled in their sockets as Peter and John rushed to the tomb, Mary Magdalene close on their tails.

Moments later the men came back and told of angels, reminding her of the Savior’s birth. Mary Magdalene came back and told of seeing Him. Jealousy filled Mary, at first, but she soon quenched it, busying herself in preparing food and beverages for people. It was the one thing she could do.

She heard a Voice in the room behind her that made her stop in her tracks.

“Peace be with you”

She knew that voice. She knew it well. She walked into the room and saw her son there, His disciples surrounding Him.

His scars seemed to glow, even the one on His thumb. Her heart was full upon seeing Him in His glory. All else faded. She ran to hug Him, kiss His cheeks and clutch His hands. He squeezed her hands three times.

I love you.

A strange smell filled the room and a look of dismay flashed upon her face.

“Oh no. The lamb!!”

Jesus’s contagious laugh filled the room. She moved to go take it off the fire, but He grabbed her hand. She looked into His eyes that overflowed in joy, peace, and light, His face wrinkled in laugh marks as He chuckled and said,

“Mary, you aren't enslaved anymore! God saved you!”

His hand moved hers above her head as He twirled her around, dancing with her as she had with Joseph so many years before. He grabbed her into another hug in undignified joy. He had triumphed.

Her baby boy had saved her.

He is in the streets now. His arms can barely hold the cross on his back. Someone needed to help Him but you are terrified. You are in the crowd next to Peter, who is distraught as well, but you can tell there is something else bothering him.

Peter's hands form two fists as he tries to hold himself back. To be honest, so are yours. The two of you struggle through the crowd to follow Him, something that is so natural to you now. His first words to you, “Follow Me,” replay in your mind.

Finally a guard finds someone to carry His cross for Him.

“Peter.” You whisper in shock and hold him back, only barely. Peter had just lunged forward to try to help. The crowd makes it impossible for the two of you to get to Him. Red droplets had taken the place of the palm branches on the road from the days before. Women wail and fathers cover the eyes of their children.

Finally the two of you get to the hill top. You force yourself to watch the guards nail Him to the cross. You watch the guards mock Him and cast lots on His garments. Peter falls to his knees beside you and you place a hand on his shoulder to both comfort him and steady yourself. 

Your eyes are fixated on Jesus's face. Your eyes on His. His meet yours. His chestnut eyes have no fear in them. They hold hints of Spirit-filled fire. They radiate love…and exhaustion and pain, both human and Godly at the same time.

Suddenly you feel a wave of peace, shalom, wash over you. It makes no sense.

How could you feel peace at a time when all felt lost?

How could you feel peace when this man you called Brother and Rabbi was dying before you? 

How could you feel peace when you and your friends were all in anguish, desperation, and grief?

You can barely pay attention to all that is happening because the shalom is overwhelming.

 “And about the ninth hour Jesus cried out with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, leabachthani?” that is, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” You hear a woman say that that man must be calling Elijah. The shalom fills your heart and you know they are wrong. He's calling His Father.

And then He dies. 

Chaos ensues. You hear a centurion say that this man was the Son of God. Peter grabs your arm and drags you with him as he runs from the hill. Earthquakes move the ground underneath your feet which makes it hard to run. A man walks by you as you turn a corner and you realize you recognize him.

“PETER” you shout. You stop running and yank Peter back. Peter looks at the man and his skin pales to sheet white. You both have seen resurrection before but it still shakes you. This man had died months ago. He rose again. Jesus didn't even have to physically be there. Peter grabs you again and pulls you into an upper room. Others are there and you all stand there in shock. Your knees give way and you fall to the ground.

“What do we do now?” someone asks.

“Where do we bury Him?” someone with a practical mind says.

“Did anyone else feel a wave of peace?” You hear your voice whisper. You feel them stare at you like you are crazy. All except one. 

“I did.” A whisper came from the other side of the room. You look up to meet Andrew's eyes. You weren't alone. Despite that, a dark cloud of guilt settles over you. How could you have felt peace at a time like that? You feel like a bad friend.

“I denied Him three times.” Peter whispers beside you, his shame penetrating the room from his whole body.

“I didn't help Him. I should have helped Him carry the cross.” You say.

“What will they do to us now that He's gone?” Thomas says next to Andrew.

“He was supposed to save us,” James says.

“Have faith, dear children,” His mother speaks softly, power radiating from her words.

“Mary, He's gone.”

The hours and days that follow feel like weeks. You watch them bury Him and place a stone across his tomb. You watch a guard take his post next to it. You hear the reasoning is so you and your friends couldn't claim He rose again.

Suddenly you realize why you felt peace. His promise has been repeating in your subconscious for two days straight. He promised resurrection. Mary's words from the day before fill your mind, “Have faith.”

The third day was tomorrow. You sleep soundly knowing and hoping if He was truly God, He would keep His promises as He had done for centuries.

You wake to women’s voices shouting that He was alive.

You watch as Peter, Mary Magdalene, and John run out of the house to confirm their claim. You have faith. An hour later the men come back upset because the tomb was empty.

Mary Magdalene comes back and says,

“I saw Him.”

Minutes later, you feel the rush of shalom again and turn your head. Your eyes meet familiar eyes you thought you'd never see again, big chestnut eyes that seem to always be filled with joy, even on that cross days before. A cup drops in the room followed by an exclamatory shout from John.

He's there.

You fall at His feet and finally release your bottled up emotions, holy tears anointing His nail-pierced feet, your head grazing his nail-scarred hands. His hand grips your shoulder as He kneels down and lifts your head up to make you look at His face and sit in His presence.

His first words to you pierce your thoughts for the rest of your life.

"Shalom Aleichem"

Peace be with you.

The table is filled with food. Flatbread with olive oil and cheese. Pomegranates. Cucumbers. Fish. More bread. Chicken. Grapes. Figs. And multiple bottles and cups of wine or milk.

All eyes are fixed on Peter. These people have no idea what is about to happen. You've heard the story so many times you've lost count. Tonight, you have a special job that Peter entrusted to you the night before.

“Write it all down”

Peter sips his wine and sets it on the table. He nods at you, signaling he's ready if you are. You nod back.

“We were in Jerusalem for Passover, which is a yearly feast for Jews where we celebrate God saving us from slavery in Egypt.”

The Gentiles in the room nod in understanding. 

“It was two days before Passover and the priests in our temple were enraged because of what Jesus was doing and teaching. At this point they had started plotting to kill him”

A child gasps which makes some of the adults chuckle.

“Peter you forgot-” you start to say but stop as Peter begins to speak again.

“A few days before we had been in Bethany. We were eating lunch and a woman we know well came with a jar of nard that she used to anoint Jesus. Some of the disciples rebuked her for it but Jesus praised her for it. He told us she was anointing him for his burial which made us all a little confused.

It made our friend Judas very upset. When we got to Jerusalem, Judas went to the high priest and agreed to help them plot against him.” 

You sense the anger in Peter's heart and listen as he tells the story of what happened in the upper room on Passover. He is a brilliant storyteller and you know your writing won't do the story justice. You copy every word he speaks…or at least write notes. He speaks quickly sometimes. Too quickly.

“We sang a hymn to the Lord and then he invited us to go with him to an olive grove.‭ And Jesus said to us, “You will all fall away, for it is written, ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.’ But after I am raised up, I will go before you to Galilee.” I replied, “Even though they all fall away, I will not.” I couldn't fathom a world where I would deny him. He was my best friend and I considered him as my brother. Jesus said “Truly, I tell you, this very night, before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.” But I said emphatically, “If I must die with you, I will not deny you.” And then everyone else said the same thing.” 

Peter sighs and pauses. You smile. He always had a hard time telling that part of the story but he did it every time without fail. Peter continues the story, conveniently leaving out the part where he cut off the soldier's ear, which makes you smile. He told that part half the time.

“I followed them to the high council, right into the courtyard of the high priest, which was an accomplishment as someone who definitely was not a Jewish rabbi. They tried to charge him but he was innocent and they could find nothing wrong with him. The high priest got so frustrated and annoyed he took advantage of  some of the stories and got to the point. He asked Jesus if he was the Messiah. 

And then Jesus stared him down and looked straight at the high priest and said-”

“What's a messiah?” One of the kids interrupts.

Peter laughs and motions to the little boy, inviting him onto his lap. “The Messiah, little friend, is the prophesied Savior of the world. He saved us from all of the things that keep us from being in relationship with God. The Jews had been waiting for him for centuries.” 

The boy snuggles into Peter's arms with a glass of milk and then says, “Was Jesus the Messiah?”

Peter nods, “I wasn't completely sure until I heard what Jesus said to the high priest. He looked at the priest and said ‭ “I am, and you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power, and coming with the clouds of heaven.” 

“The high priest got really really mad and tore his garment and said “what else do we need to hear? He's obviously saying something that's not true!” Everyone was furious. I was terrified, but also insanely proud.”

Peter takes another sip of wine. You knew he was stalling. You smile and then look at the little boy in his lap, who you had met the day before. “Do you know what happened next Julius?” you say.

Julius shakes his head enthusiastically.

You whisper, “someone spotted Peter in the courtyard.” Julius gasps and the adults chuckle. Peter gestures for you to continue. You look at him. He's never not wanted to tell that part. He nods and you realize he's letting you practice.

“A serving girl came up to Peter and said “hey! I've seen you with Jesus!” Peter shook his head and said “oh no. I don't know Jesus. I don't know what you mean.” and then a rooster crowed. The girl then told everyone in the yard that Peter was one of Jesus's followers!”

“Oh no!!” Julius says. You smile and Peter continues the story.

“I was so scared. I didn't want them to hurt me. I was more than scared, I was terrified. I told her she was crazy and that I had didn't know who he was. A little while later, someone else accused me of being one of his followers and I said, “I swear I do not know the man of whom you speak!”

“Ooooo you swore!” Julius says. Peter laughs. You are beginning to really like this kid. 

“Guess what Julius?” You say. Julius stares at you enthusiastically,  bouncing slightly in Peter's lap.  “The rooster crowed a second time.”

“Just like Jesus said!!”

“Yes,” Peter continues, “just like Jesus said.”

“How did you feel?” Julius says softly. He shifts in Peter's lap, settling deeper into it. His mother smiles with pride. You can tell she loved him deeply. You know that Julius's father had died months before, so seeing the child in the arms of another man likely made her feel peace.

“I felt really sad. The saddest I've ever felt. I was heartbroken that I lied so much. I betrayed my best friend. It was the worst feeling ever.” Peter says in simple terms that the 6 year old could understand. Peter continues the story getting closer and closer to his least favorite part…which was also one of his favorites at the same time.

“Matthew and I got up to the top of the hill and watched as they nailed Jesus to the cross.”

You finish writing the sentence and notice Julius was so quiet in Peter's arms. 

“Julius, do you have a question?” You ask, interrupting Peter.

Julius nods and says quietly, “Why was he being crucified? He was supposed to save everybody.”

Tears fill Peter's eyes. He opens his mouth to answer but chokes on the lump in his throat. He takes a deep breath and says, “Julius, I asked that question to myself over and over while I watched it happen. The guards were so mean to him. They hurt him really really badly and it made me feel so hopeless.”

Peter pauses and you watch Julius and some of the other children in the room take it all in. You admire his honesty with the kids in the room. Peter's shift to simpler storytelling was so very appropriate for the 10 young children in it. The adults didn't seem to mind either.

Peter continues on, brushing over some of the more traumatic parts of the story for the sake of the young ones, but in a masterful way that made everyone in the room feel the anguish and despair the disciples felt when Jesus died.

“Wait. In that other story you told us, Jesus said he would rise again,” a little girl, Flora, says. 

You hear Luke chuckle in the corner. You knew he had watched this 10 year old girl grow up. He was part of her metaphorical and, for a time, literal village. He saw her in ways that no one else did and oftentimes had taken care of her when her parents couldn't, even to the point of her living with him for a year when she was 4. He was her Uncle Luke, her honorary family, the one who God used to bring her family together again.

All eyes set on Peter who says, “yes, Flora. Do you remember how long Jesus said it would take?”

Flora shakes her head. Julius pops up and exclaims “Three days!!!”

“Yes, three days. But we all forgot he told us that. Well, everyone except for Jesus's Eema, Matthew, and my brother Andrew. Matthew remembered the night of the second day, Andrew remembered that same night, but both of them kept it to themselves because they were scared.

We buried him and then hid from the Roman and Jewish leaders because we were scared we were next. On the morning of the third day some women were going to go anoint His body. They were a little worried about who would roll the big stone away but something strange happened when they got there.”

“What happened?” The children all say nervously, hanging on Peter's every word. 

“The stone had been rolled away!! They came inside the tomb and Jesus was gone! There was an angel in the tomb that told them that Jesus was alive! They ran and told all of us what they had seen. And then John and I went to go check their story.”

“They raced. John won.” You say with a grin. Peter glares at you though the grin in his own face displayed his true emotion.

“Yes, but I won the race back home. He never tells that part of the story. Anyway, when we got to the tomb it was empty! Our friend Mary Magdalene also came with and when John and I went home she stayed a bit longer. We all thought his body had been stolen but when she was by herself, she saw Jesus and talked to him. She came back and told us everything that had happened and at first we didn't believe her.

And then he appeared in the room with us. I got to touch his feet and his hands.”

“Whoa.” Julius says quietly from Peter's lap. You finish writing the story, putting the last letter on the page.

“Whoa indeed” you say to Julius. The mothers then request a pause on the stories for the night so the children can sleep, to which you and Peter oblige, both of you exhausted from your day.

“That was a good story.” Flora says, rubbing her eyes as her mother and father usher her out of the room.

You hear Julius mutter “Mom, that Peter guy and that Mark guy are really cool…but I think my favorite person from the story is Jesus.”

And you hear her mutter back, pure joy, simcha, radiating in her voice, “Julius, he's my favorite too. He will always be my favorite.”

Of course you know, or have heard of, many of the people in this story. You met Mary Magdalene. You were one of the few who got to meet Mary, Jesus's mother, before she died. Her stories are gifts that you treasure in your heart.

Your hands run over the Greek word for crucified. That part of the story is where you are in Mark's account of what happened. There are parts you feel are important that he didn't include, but his work is stunning. You are a proud friend. You take a deep breath.

You are also a doctor. You know the horrors of crucifixion. You know many of the intricate details of the inner pain felt during those long hours. Mark's words come alive in your head as you read “‭‭And they clothed him in a purple cloak, and twisting together a crown of thorns, they put it on him. And they began to salute him, “Hail, King of the Jews!” And they were striking his head with a reed and spitting on him and kneeling down in homage to him. “

You know how painful it would be to get hit in the head by a reed. You have stuff thrown at you all the time. There was a bump on your head from a stone someone threw at you months ago that was still healing. People spat on you all the time as you apprenticed under Paul and Peter. They mocked you as you showed kindness and love to the outcasts and marginalized. They criticized you as you wrapped up the feet of the homeless and gave lepers new bandages and prayed that God would heal them. You were no stranger to pain.

You glance over at the old cup of wine on your table as you read, “‭‭And they offered him wine mixed with myrrh, but he did not take it.” Of course he didn't take it. You sip the tiniest bit of the sour wine and immediately spit it out. Of course he didn't take it…it would taste so much worse with myrrh.

You know the pain Jesus felt on the Cross. You know the biological ramifications of what the Romans did to him. You know how hard it would be for Him to breathe, each breath more painful than the one before, Jesus slowly suffocating as the fluid in his body filled his lungs. It makes the words that Mark writes that Jesus spoke all the more meaningful, “‭And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

You wish he included more of Jesus's words. Again you read how they offered him more sour wine. And then the words come, the words you knew were coming that make you cry every time you hear them, even though you know the story is not over.

“He breathed his last.”

You sniff and wipe your eyes. You remember Peter telling the story. He barely could get through that part every time he spoke it. His hands shook every time. Every time you heard it from his lips it reminded you that this man you admired was human too and went through massive trauma all those years ago. It was worse than when he told how he denied Jesus. He always had to take a minute and sit in silence. Paul got teary eyed too when he told it.

Mark's inclusion of the centurion makes you smile through the salty water on your cheeks. That guy had a soft spot for Gentiles. You read about the burial and then joy fills your heart again as you read about his resurrection.

 “He has risen.” Those three words represent the moment the world changed. Those three words represent how this Son of God invited you into life changing work. Those three little words.

“He has risen”

You know bits of the aftermath that Mark didn't include, but in that moment, it didn't matter.

He has risen. 

You will never be apart from God again.

He has risen.

Your sins are forgiven.

He has risen.

You have new life.

He is risen.

You have been healed.

You pick up your cup of old wine and start to clean it. You hear a knock on our door and know who it is immediately. Only one person knocks as wildly as that on your door…always just on your door. You race to open it, anxiety racing in you heart.

“So what do you think?” he says, leaning on the door frame with a smile that screamed cocky, but you knew had insecurity written all over it. You roll your eyes. His hair is matted with dried blood and his arms are full of bruises. His leg has a gash in it and you could sweat that cut in his ear is new. 

“That's the first thing you say to me?! Lydia came running to my door with the manuscript telling me that you were captured or being beaten or something and I spent half my day trying to find you,” you say to him hitting his arms softly in annoyance before hugging him and then rushing him inside, grabbing cloths and bandages and a needle and string just in case.

He laughs and shrugs, “we'll talk about it later. What did you think?”

“You forgot about his birth story.” you say grabbing a bowl of clean water and pushing him into a chair.

“What did you think of it?”

“Why didn't you include the other things he said on the cross?” you say as you kneel at his feet, in the same position that Jesus had been in washing the feet of his disciples as you clean out the gash in Mark's leg. He grabs your hand and you look up. His eyes speak to yours silently saying “Stop doctoring me and listen.” He sees the distraction leave you.

“Luke, my brother, will you answer my question? I don't want to talk about improvements yet. What did you think of the writing?”

You smile and hold both his hands. You flinch as you always do when his finger hits one of yours that was nearly cut off six months ago. He mutters a small apology but you brush it off because in that moment you feel the Holy Spirit fill you and you say:

“Mark. It's beautiful.”

You get a nod from this brother and a deep smile on his face that has a black eye on it. You grab the clean wine cup and another cup and pour new wine in it and the two of you sit together as you finish cleaning his wounds. 

He laughs through the pain as you both share stories with each other and admire how much your spiritual children have grown. The two of you talk about two young women, Flora and Lydia, who you have known since their infancy, both of whom are now powerful, yet often overlooked, leaders of the Church, messengers that could sneak in the cracks of cities to bring good news to the nations with such efficiency that the Roman and Jewish authorities couldn't keep up.

Mark then utters words that unbeknownst to the two of you would create your legacy just as much as the document on your table would create his.

“Theophilus sent a letter with Flora. He wants to read your version.”

And now you are watching this man who promised to save you be whipped and beaten. You watch as soldiers place a crown of thorns on his head. You watch as His blood drips down his face, slowly dripping down His nose like a tear. You know him well enough to see the pain in his eyes. A small part of you also recognizes the compassion in His eyes. A small part of you sees the love in his face. You don't get it. 

You watch as they drag him into the town square. The soldiers ask a man to carry his cross. You feel your mom's hand clutch your arm. She pulls you back cause she knows the thunder in your soul wants to move heaven and earth to stop what is happening from happening. You've seen crucifixions your whole life. You know what is going to happen. You see your best friend's mom in the crowd and push through to hold her hand. Your mom follows too. The three of you push your way through all the people in Jerusalem for Passover. 

The cross disappears on a hill. You hear your friend shout in pain. His mom grips your hand, just barely keeping herself standing. You look over and see your friend, Peter in the crowd. The two of you make eye contact. His puffy red eyes are filled with tears. His face is red with anger and is that guilt? shame? You can't tell. You loose track of Peter as you hear Mary sob beside you. You follow her gaze and see two crosses go up. You hold the hands of the women beside you and push through the crowds. The three of you make it up to the front in time to see soldiers pulling the third cross up. 

The women beside you fall to their knees. You feel a hand on your shoulder and turn around to see your brother standing beside you. He kneels next to your Eema. You hear a whisper from the cross. 

"Father, Forgive them; for they know not what they do."

His mom sobs beside you. A small, desperate, sad smile quickly comes and disappears on your face. Of course. He forgives the people who beat him and tortured him. For the first time, you look up at his face. You see the tears in his eyes. But there. Again you see his love. You watch in horror as the guards gamble for his clothes. Someone in the crowd mocks Him, telling him to save himself. The soldiers mock him too. Your Eema holds you back again as the thundering anger fills your heart. You look over to see her holding your brother back too. You hear one of the thieves on the other crosses mock Jesus. But then you hear words come out of the other one's mouth and you listen to his plea to Jesus and His response.

"I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in Paradise."

Another quick painful smile. In all that pain and discomfort, this friend on the cross still sought after the people He loves. You look up into his eyes. You watch his lungs struggle to breathe. You see the blood oozing from his hands and feet. His eyes glance over to His Eema. You listen as he starts to talk directly to you, painfully pushing air through his throat.

"Dear woman, here is your son. Here is your mother."

Your knees buckle and you fall beside this woman next to you whose wellbeing Jesus just entrusted to you. She sobs into your shoulder and you weep too. You place your arm around her. You hear Jesus mutter the words,

" My God, my God, Why have you forsaken me?"

The words of David echo in your head. You watch as your best friend struggles to breath again. You can tell he has something to say.

"I'm thirsty."

You jump up, ready to find same water, only for the guards to give him sour wine.

"It is finished."

You watch as he gets closer and closer to death, his lungs struggling more and more. You feel helpless. You want to take him down and make everything okay again, but you can't.

" Father, into your hands I commit my Spirit."

You hear his mom wail and you know he's gone. You feel the earth shake and chaos ensues. People scream and run for cover. Somehow, your legs won't move. You watch as a nearby tomb opens. Someone walks out, resurrected from the dead. You hear a soldier gasp in amazement and the words " Truly, this man was the Son of God" come from his mouth. The quaking stops and darkness settles in.

Hours go by and you try to bring his mom to the home you are staying in. You finally get her to go after promising you will come back to be with him. You drop her off and hear that they are going to break the legs of those on the cross. You run back and watch as they break the other prisoner's legs. You watch as the soldiers realize he was already dead. They stab his side and water and blood flood out. 

Reality finally sets in. He's really gone. You watch as they take him off the cross and hand him to Joseph of Arimathea. He tells you he will take care of the burial. You leave and return to Mary. The home is filled with the men and women that were closest to Jesus. One of them says what everyone else is thinking.

"What now?”

Three days later, you are tired and weary, in desperate need of rest. You sit with your friends and family unsure of what to do next. Some of your spiritual sisters decide to go visit the tomb to anoint His body with herbs and ointments they had prepared two days before.

You wait for their return, watching Peter argue with James about something meaningless, both men fueled with anger towards the unjust acts of the days before. Mary, Jesus's mom, comes and sits next to you. You put your head on her shoulder. Her red eyes are puffy but no tears fall. You give her a cup of water to drink. Neither of you have any energy left to cry.

An hour passes and the sisters rush back into the room. They talk all at once and it is difficult to understand what they are saying. All you can make out is "Tomb empty" and "Angel".

You get up and meet eyes with Peter. The two of you start running toward the tomb. Mary Magdalene follows you both.

You get there first.

It's empty. The body is gone. You stop at the entrance. Peter catches up and walks inside. He touches the cloths inside and looks back at you. You walk in and look around.

"Where is he?" You mutter. Peter shrugs. 

The two of you return to the home. You tell the others the women were right. The tomb was empty. Moments later, Mary Magdalene comes into the room. She says she saw Him.

Two men come in the room moments after exclaiming that He has risen from the dead.

As you listen to their story, your eyes wander to the floor. You wonder why he didn't visit you while you were there. Maybe they were all making it up. But why would they?

You stand up, noticing the thirst in your throat. You grab a cup of wine and turn to face the room.

Your hand drops the cup, wine splattering all over the floor as your eyes see the impossible. Your heart leaps and you shout for joy. Everyone looks up at you in confusion.

Then they see what you see. Jesus is in the room. Like really physically there, his eyes shining with delight and love.

Everyone gasps and stops for a second before he assures you all that it is actually him. You run to him and hug him, the weariness and exhaustion leaving your body almost instantly. You find rest in his arms.

 He laughs and says, 

"Shalom Aleichem"

Peace be with you.

He opens his hands and shows you his feet. Your fingers outline the holes. He was really there. It was really him. He really died and came back. Your brain can't completely fathom how it worked.

"But I saw-" you start. He puts his hand on your shoulder and says 

"I will always be with you."

You listen intently as he explains the purpose of all the events that had come to pass. You start to put together the answer to the question from three days before. 

You glance over to his mom, who has a look of awe and wonder on her face. Your Eema stands next to her, her hands still on her face, covering her nose and mouth in surprise. Slowly she lowers them, revealing a joyful smile.

Her mouth opens and she mouths

"He is risen"

You smile back and whisper…

“He is risen indeed”