The streets of Jerusalem still smelled of blood and sweat. Roman patrols barked orders at merchants, and whispers of crucifixions flitted through market stalls like crows. I kept my head down, heart pounding as I slipped into the upper room. We rarely left now—only when fear allowed it. The priests might be satisfied with the death of Jesus, but the rumors of His missing body had stirred the city like hornets. Some said His disciples stole Him. Others said… stranger things.
But I didn’t believe any of it.
I stepped into the room, greeted by ten pairs of eyes. Their faces lit up, like children who’d seen the skies open.
“Thomas,” Peter leaned forward, his voice trembling with conviction, “We saw Him. He came to us.”
I stopped mid-step. “Saw who?”
“Jesus. He was here. Alive.”
I snorted. They were all trembling with joy, but I only felt heat rise in my chest. “No. Not unless I push my fingers into the holes the Romans made in His hands. Not unless I lay my hand into His side. I won’t believe.”
A hush fell. Matthew lowered his gaze. John’s eyes filled, not with sorrow—pity.
I turned away from their stares. I wasn’t trying to be cruel—I was trying to protect myself. I had watched Him die. I had seen the spear pierce His chest, the blood and water flow as life drained out. Hope had died with Him. And I wasn't foolish enough to resurrect it on feelings.
Eight days passed. We stayed hidden. Grieving. Peter fasted. Mary prayed. But I waited—for what, I didn’t know.
And then, without warning, He was there.
Not walking through the door. Not knocking. One moment we were alone. The next, He stood among us. The same eyes that saw straight through masks. The same hands—one lifted now—showing scars where nails had been. The others fell to the floor, some crying, some whispering prayers. But He came to me.
“Thomas.” My name in His voice was a balm—and a blade.
“Put your finger here,” He said, extending His hand.
I couldn’t move.
“See My hands. Reach out. Put your hand into My side. Stop doubting and believe.”
His words weren’t harsh. They weren’t angry. There was no lecture, no judgment for my pride or demands. Only Him—even now offering wounds to mend mine.
My legs bent. Not from fear. From something deeper. My soul collapsed in on itself, long-held walls cracking.
“My Lord and my God,” I whispered.
Not because I’d proved Him. Not because I touched. I never did.
But because He came. Into my doubt. Past my defenses. And still offered Himself.
Something within me loosened—the ache of grief, the shame of pride, the bitterness of being left behind. All of it faded in the warmth of mercy.
He smiled.
And I understood, perhaps for the first time: the miracle of God wasn’t just that He rose—but that He came back... for me.
The streets of Jerusalem still smelled of blood and sweat. Roman patrols barked orders at merchants, and whispers of crucifixions flitted through market stalls like crows. I kept my head down, heart pounding as I slipped into the upper room. We rarely left now—only when fear allowed it. The priests might be satisfied with the death of Jesus, but the rumors of His missing body had stirred the city like hornets. Some said His disciples stole Him. Others said… stranger things.
But I didn’t believe any of it.
I stepped into the room, greeted by ten pairs of eyes. Their faces lit up, like children who’d seen the skies open.
“Thomas,” Peter leaned forward, his voice trembling with conviction, “We saw Him. He came to us.”
I stopped mid-step. “Saw who?”
“Jesus. He was here. Alive.”
I snorted. They were all trembling with joy, but I only felt heat rise in my chest. “No. Not unless I push my fingers into the holes the Romans made in His hands. Not unless I lay my hand into His side. I won’t believe.”
A hush fell. Matthew lowered his gaze. John’s eyes filled, not with sorrow—pity.
I turned away from their stares. I wasn’t trying to be cruel—I was trying to protect myself. I had watched Him die. I had seen the spear pierce His chest, the blood and water flow as life drained out. Hope had died with Him. And I wasn't foolish enough to resurrect it on feelings.
Eight days passed. We stayed hidden. Grieving. Peter fasted. Mary prayed. But I waited—for what, I didn’t know.
And then, without warning, He was there.
Not walking through the door. Not knocking. One moment we were alone. The next, He stood among us. The same eyes that saw straight through masks. The same hands—one lifted now—showing scars where nails had been. The others fell to the floor, some crying, some whispering prayers. But He came to me.
“Thomas.” My name in His voice was a balm—and a blade.
“Put your finger here,” He said, extending His hand.
I couldn’t move.
“See My hands. Reach out. Put your hand into My side. Stop doubting and believe.”
His words weren’t harsh. They weren’t angry. There was no lecture, no judgment for my pride or demands. Only Him—even now offering wounds to mend mine.
My legs bent. Not from fear. From something deeper. My soul collapsed in on itself, long-held walls cracking.
“My Lord and my God,” I whispered.
Not because I’d proved Him. Not because I touched. I never did.
But because He came. Into my doubt. Past my defenses. And still offered Himself.
Something within me loosened—the ache of grief, the shame of pride, the bitterness of being left behind. All of it faded in the warmth of mercy.
He smiled.
And I understood, perhaps for the first time: the miracle of God wasn’t just that He rose—but that He came back... for me.
