It was the third day since Rome’s soldiers hauled Him up the hill. The city creaked under the weight of rumors—some said His body vanished, others whispered of angels. I didn’t care. I had failed Him. And now He was gone.
We’d gathered discreetly on the hillside near Galilee, far from the mouths of Jerusalem’s officials. Around me were faces just as strained as mine. Peter sat with his hands clenched, eyes rimmed red. Thomas barely dared to look up. We were fishermen, tax collectors, sons who should’ve stayed home. And we had abandoned the only man who ever spoke to us like we were worth something.
A gust of warm wind slid through the olive trees. I closed my eyes, heart heavy. We had walked with Him, seen lepers cleansed, dead children raised. And when the fear of Rome pressed in, we disappeared. So what now—go back to nets and tax booths? Pretend we hadn’t glimpsed eternity?
“Peace.”
I opened my eyes. There He stood. Not a vision. Real. His tunic pressed against the breeze, his eyes—God help me—they were kind.
“No,” I whispered, my knees giving. “I don’t deserve this.”
He came closer, not with accusation, but with open hands marked by nail scars. I saw Peter tremble. John's breath caught. Even Thomas stood speechless.
“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me,” Jesus said. No scroll, no throne, no crown—just Him, standing on rocky ground, bearing the wounds we let happen. Yet His voice steady, like a cornerstone placed where nothing had stood before.
“Go,” He said. “Make disciples of all nations. Baptize them. Teach them to obey all I have commanded you. And I am with you—always, to the end of the age.”
My heart thudded. Still—I felt unworthy. Flawed. But He didn’t ask if we were ready. He just sent us.
Someone behind me sobbed. It might’ve been me.
I remembered the blind man who couldn't stop laughing after Jesus touched his eyes. That was real. So was the woman who had bled for twelve years—healed with a word. I had seen the storm still at His voice. If He could do that through cracked hands like mine... then maybe there was still a place for me.
Later, we started down the mountain together. Not all of us spoke, but the silence didn’t feel empty anymore. For the first time in days, fear wasn’t the loudest thing in the room of my chest. Instead, I felt a strange flame. Purpose, maybe. Or just Him—still with us, just as He said.
I didn't know what my first step would look like—whether I’d teach in Greek or Hebrew, to beggar or centurion. But I knew I would step. Not because I was brave, but because He was with me.
He believed I could carry His words to the world.
And somehow, that was enough.
It was the third day since Rome’s soldiers hauled Him up the hill. The city creaked under the weight of rumors—some said His body vanished, others whispered of angels. I didn’t care. I had failed Him. And now He was gone.
We’d gathered discreetly on the hillside near Galilee, far from the mouths of Jerusalem’s officials. Around me were faces just as strained as mine. Peter sat with his hands clenched, eyes rimmed red. Thomas barely dared to look up. We were fishermen, tax collectors, sons who should’ve stayed home. And we had abandoned the only man who ever spoke to us like we were worth something.
A gust of warm wind slid through the olive trees. I closed my eyes, heart heavy. We had walked with Him, seen lepers cleansed, dead children raised. And when the fear of Rome pressed in, we disappeared. So what now—go back to nets and tax booths? Pretend we hadn’t glimpsed eternity?
“Peace.”
I opened my eyes. There He stood. Not a vision. Real. His tunic pressed against the breeze, his eyes—God help me—they were kind.
“No,” I whispered, my knees giving. “I don’t deserve this.”
He came closer, not with accusation, but with open hands marked by nail scars. I saw Peter tremble. John's breath caught. Even Thomas stood speechless.
“All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me,” Jesus said. No scroll, no throne, no crown—just Him, standing on rocky ground, bearing the wounds we let happen. Yet His voice steady, like a cornerstone placed where nothing had stood before.
“Go,” He said. “Make disciples of all nations. Baptize them. Teach them to obey all I have commanded you. And I am with you—always, to the end of the age.”
My heart thudded. Still—I felt unworthy. Flawed. But He didn’t ask if we were ready. He just sent us.
Someone behind me sobbed. It might’ve been me.
I remembered the blind man who couldn't stop laughing after Jesus touched his eyes. That was real. So was the woman who had bled for twelve years—healed with a word. I had seen the storm still at His voice. If He could do that through cracked hands like mine... then maybe there was still a place for me.
Later, we started down the mountain together. Not all of us spoke, but the silence didn’t feel empty anymore. For the first time in days, fear wasn’t the loudest thing in the room of my chest. Instead, I felt a strange flame. Purpose, maybe. Or just Him—still with us, just as He said.
I didn't know what my first step would look like—whether I’d teach in Greek or Hebrew, to beggar or centurion. But I knew I would step. Not because I was brave, but because He was with me.
He believed I could carry His words to the world.
And somehow, that was enough.
