The sun was brutal over Judea, baking the hills outside of Jericho into a cracked, lifeless skin. I moved slowly—cloaked in dust, skin tight over bone, stomach hollow. Forty days. That’s how long we’d been out here, with only silence for company and the wind carving shadows across the rocks. I came to follow Him, to learn from Him. I didn’t come to suffer. But now everything smelled of death—my hope, my strength, even my faith.
My name is Malach, an apprentice scribe from the outskirts of Jerusalem.
No scroll mentions me. I wasn’t part of the story—but I was there, watching from the edges.
The day I abandoned everything to follow Jesus, I believed I’d walked into the heart of a miracle. He had looked so ordinary at the Jordan, but when He stepped into the river, it was as if the sky itself responded. After that, He walked into the wilderness alone, and for some reason—some desperate aching inside me—I followed.
Now, crouched behind a rock and shivering from heat, I doubted. I doubted the choice, the journey, even the man.
And then He came.
Not Jesus. Not this time.
The man descending the rocks looked like royalty from Rome, clean-swept and bright-eyed. Yet something in his smile was wrong, like a coin that glittered but had no weight.
“Why suffer like this?” the man said, his voice like honey thickened in sun. “If you are God’s Son, tell these stones to become bread.”
I sank lower, afraid. He wasn’t talking to me.
Jesus stood on a ridge not far ahead. He looked worn, thinner than when we began—but unbroken. He faced this strange man without flinching.
“It is written,” Jesus replied, his voice quiet and firm, “man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”
The man’s smile didn’t fade, only changed. The air pulsed strange—like a storm trying to be born. In a blink, the two of them were gone.
I gasped, stumbled toward the place they’d been, heart screaming. What was this? Where had He gone?
Then, just as suddenly, I saw them again—far off on a high ridge. Too far. And then... the temple? I could see it as if standing before it. The man gestured, laughing: “Throw yourself down. Angels will come for you. Isn't it written?”
Jesus stood still as night. “It is also written: Do not test the Lord your God.”
The wind recoiled. The man’s form flickered again, stronger now, offering kingdoms, power, everything I had ever dreamed.
Jesus didn’t look at him. “Away from me, Satan. For it is written: worship the Lord your God and serve Him only.”
The figure shattered into air.
Silence returned.
And then—I felt Him near. I turned, and He was beside me, eyes steady, breath calm, like He had never moved.
“Why are you here, Malach?” His voice was gentle.
I wanted to speak of hunger, fear, the way my heart had cracked in solitude. But all I said was, “I was afraid I’d chosen wrong.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Even in the wilderness, God remains.”
And somehow, in that instant, the sun was no longer punishment—it was light again.
I stood straighter. My legs shook, but I did not fall.
We began the walk back together, and though nothing had physically changed, I knew I would never see the wilderness the same again.
The sun was brutal over Judea, baking the hills outside of Jericho into a cracked, lifeless skin. I moved slowly—cloaked in dust, skin tight over bone, stomach hollow. Forty days. That’s how long we’d been out here, with only silence for company and the wind carving shadows across the rocks. I came to follow Him, to learn from Him. I didn’t come to suffer. But now everything smelled of death—my hope, my strength, even my faith.
My name is Malach, an apprentice scribe from the outskirts of Jerusalem.
No scroll mentions me. I wasn’t part of the story—but I was there, watching from the edges.
The day I abandoned everything to follow Jesus, I believed I’d walked into the heart of a miracle. He had looked so ordinary at the Jordan, but when He stepped into the river, it was as if the sky itself responded. After that, He walked into the wilderness alone, and for some reason—some desperate aching inside me—I followed.
Now, crouched behind a rock and shivering from heat, I doubted. I doubted the choice, the journey, even the man.
And then He came.
Not Jesus. Not this time.
The man descending the rocks looked like royalty from Rome, clean-swept and bright-eyed. Yet something in his smile was wrong, like a coin that glittered but had no weight.
“Why suffer like this?” the man said, his voice like honey thickened in sun. “If you are God’s Son, tell these stones to become bread.”
I sank lower, afraid. He wasn’t talking to me.
Jesus stood on a ridge not far ahead. He looked worn, thinner than when we began—but unbroken. He faced this strange man without flinching.
“It is written,” Jesus replied, his voice quiet and firm, “man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”
The man’s smile didn’t fade, only changed. The air pulsed strange—like a storm trying to be born. In a blink, the two of them were gone.
I gasped, stumbled toward the place they’d been, heart screaming. What was this? Where had He gone?
Then, just as suddenly, I saw them again—far off on a high ridge. Too far. And then... the temple? I could see it as if standing before it. The man gestured, laughing: “Throw yourself down. Angels will come for you. Isn't it written?”
Jesus stood still as night. “It is also written: Do not test the Lord your God.”
The wind recoiled. The man’s form flickered again, stronger now, offering kingdoms, power, everything I had ever dreamed.
Jesus didn’t look at him. “Away from me, Satan. For it is written: worship the Lord your God and serve Him only.”
The figure shattered into air.
Silence returned.
And then—I felt Him near. I turned, and He was beside me, eyes steady, breath calm, like He had never moved.
“Why are you here, Malach?” His voice was gentle.
I wanted to speak of hunger, fear, the way my heart had cracked in solitude. But all I said was, “I was afraid I’d chosen wrong.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Even in the wilderness, God remains.”
And somehow, in that instant, the sun was no longer punishment—it was light again.
I stood straighter. My legs shook, but I did not fall.
We began the walk back together, and though nothing had physically changed, I knew I would never see the wilderness the same again.
