This is a continuation of my exercises in empathy series. In this story, a woman who followed Jesus recounts the events of the cross and burial from her perspective. I like to imagine one of the less mentioned, popular. So, not a Mary. But maybe a Joanna or a Salome. :)
It was dark. So dark!
I watched him, bleeding and pleading with his Father up there on that ugly, hateful cross.
And he never lost his faith in God's goodness? All that pain; who could bear it? Yet, he did.
The Lamb of God, I remember they were saying. The name he was called by John, the beheaded prophet. The Lamb, to take away the sin of the world. So innocent. Kind. Why, God? Why?
I watched my good Teacher as he spoke, committing his spirit into the hands of his Father.
I watched his last breath. Finished.
WE are finished! All of us!
I wailed and sobbed, retched and pulled out my hair. My heart pounded inside my chest; I beat at it to make it be still.
And now, he has been put away into that awful, cold, dark grave.
My sisters and I, we must honor his body. We will prepare an assortment of spices to preserve him as long as possible. My brothers, they dare not come, for they might be next to die!
But, the stone! How will we...?
No, I don't care! Somehow we will find a way to remove it! Teacher said a mustard seed-sized faith could move a mountain from here to there. Maybe I have enough for a stone. Just enough left.
But tomorrow is the Sabbath. We must rest. It is our way of life. The
one normal thing left to cling to: our laws and traditions.
(And so began the longest day.)