Jerusalem is crowded with pilgrims who have come to celebrate the Passover in the Holy City. Like me, many of them have heard of the Teacher from Nazareth and the miracles He has done. I was present when He entered the city four days ago, riding on a donkey. I cheered and waved and my husband was among those who cut down palm branches to lay along the path. I had never seen Jesus before and I strained to get a good look at Him.
He looked like any other man, I suppose. Bearded. Long haired. Wearing a simple robe and sandals on His feet. He may have been shorter than my husband, Josiah, but it was hard to tell since He was on a donkey.
“I don’t see what’s so special about HimHim,” I whispered to Josiah.
And as if He had heard my words, Jesus turned to me. His eyes held mine for a moment, searching me. My breath caught in my throat. In that moment, I knew that He had looked into my soul, that He knew all there was to know about me. He knew of the child I had lost three years ago, of the poverty in which Josiah and I lived. He knew that while Josiah was obedient to the teachings of the Torah, I was often unhappy with my life. I tried to pull my gaze away from His face, but I found I could not. My heart pounded in my chest. Would He, like others, condemn me for my childless state?
Then He smiled. Gentle. Caring. A smile that said He knew my life was hard. He nodded His head and touched His hand to His heart. In that simple gesture, I knew two things: I had been forgiven for my faults and lack of faith, and I was loved.
I grabbed Josiah’s arm. “He IS the Messiah,” I whispered. I do not know if Josiah heard me; the crowd was shouting and pushing us away from Jesus as they all tried to get closer. I watched Him even as Josiah put his arm around me and pulled me close to his side, keeping the surging crowd from parting us.
*
Josiah did not want me to be here today, on this hill outside of the city. The Place of Skulls, they call it, the place where the Romans hang their criminals in the most cruel way. My husband tried to persuade me to stay away, but he did not forbid me. He indulges me more than his mother says he should. For the past four days, I have spoken of little else except Jesus.
We stand on a hill, near the site of the crosses. Josiah will not let me move closer. I am on my tiptoes, my hand on the shoulder of my husband, to see. It is a gruesome sight and I will not describe it. It is enough that the memory of it will remain in my mind.
I see those gathered at the foot of His cross. There are soldiers who played dice in the dust, gambling for his cloak. When they look at Him at all, it is to taunt Him.
“Where are your angels?” they inquire. “If you are the Son of God, come down from there!”
He looks down at them, the movement painful to Him. His face is full of pity. “Father, forgive them!” He says. The soldiers at the cross hang their heads.
Another voice, raspy and choked with pain, rises up. “Remember me,” says the man hanging on the cross next to Jesus. “When You come into Your kingdom, remember me!” A young woman at the base of this cross reaches up to the man. Is she his sister? His wife?
Jesus’s words carry on the wind. “This day,” He says, “You will be with Me in Paradise.”
The young woman kneels in the dirt, her head bowed. His words have given her comfort.
His disciple, John, is there, supporting a woman I think is Mary, the mother of Jesus. She leans against him, but she does not take her eyes off her Son. How brave she is. I think of my own son, who lived so briefly and died in my arms. How can she bear this? But she will, I know. She has had His whole lifetime to prepare for this.
“Behold,” Jesus says to John. “This is your mother. Woman,” He says to Mary. “This is your son.”
I hear her cry out. John wraps his arms around her. She will survive. Women always find a way.
The sun grows hot. Josiah tries to lead me away, but I cannot go. I need to be here. I need to do…something. I don’t know what. Not yet. Josiah finds a young boy selling gourds of water. I am sure he paid too much for it, but I sip the cool liquid. Jesus has refused to drink what a soldier offered to Him on a sponge. Josiah says it was probably filled with gall to dull His pain. He chooses to feel each pang.
The sky grows dark and I cling onto Josiah. What is happening? The earth rumbles and shakes. Many in the crowd scream.
“It is finished!” Jesus cries. His voice is strong and sure. His eyes search the crowd. Briefly, they land on me. “Father, into your hands I commit My spirit!” His head collapses onto His chest.
The soldiers look up. One of them cries out, “Surely this Man was the Son of God!”
I lean onto Josiah’s shoulder and my tears stain his tunic. My husband leads me away. He whispers to me soothing words. I give one backward glance at the Cross. I have been a witness.
Now, I know what it is that I must do. For the rest of my life, I will be a witness.
May we, too, live as witnesses to His love, mercy, and resurrection—today and always.
One thought on “WITNESS”
Linda, thanks for painting the picture of what it might have been like to be there, a firsthand witness. I’m especially struck by the idea that so many women at the time would have lost an infant and shared in Mary’s grief in that way.