Silence in the house, shouting on the streets. Jerusalem in an uproar, a girl waiting in silence. She is still young, a child of perhaps ten years. Something will happen today. Something will change her.
* * *
I should be making the bread now, Mother told me I should make the dough while her and father were gone. They've left for a trial, I think; details about that kind of thing are never given to children. Normally, I'd obey mother, but the noise outside is distracting me. There's shouting. It sounds like a large crowd is out there.
I know I should do what I'm about to, but I'm curious. I'm sure the crowd has something to do with the Romans; nothing exciting ever happens without the Romans being a part of it. I push the door open just enough to let me stick my head outside. Yes, there are Roman soldiers out there, but I see my people out there, too.
The crowd is head back by the soldiers. In the center of the street there is a man. He looks tired, and his face is covered with a mixture of sweat and blood. I wince as a Roman lifts a whip and brings it down upon the man's back. Now that I've looked beyond the man's face, I see that he carries a large wooden cross on his back.
The cross means one thing. I've never seen anyone be crucified before, but the street that runs by my home is on the way to Golgotha, so I've seen others carry the same burden. When I asked Father about it, he explained that those who carry the crosses are walking to their executions. Never before have I seen so many people following one of these criminals.
Trying to pick up some words from the noise of the crowd, I step further outside, though I still clutch the door. I strain my ears, and finally am rewarded. A name drifts up from the din: Jesus. A chill runs through me.
I've heard his name; all of Jerusalem has. He is a good man. He performs miracles and heals the sick. But why is he being treated like a criminal? What wrong could such a good man have done? Then I remember: Father was talking to Mother last night. I wasn't supposed to hear what they said. It was when they spoke of the trial. He'd said someone had claimed to be the son of God.
A new bout of shouting breaks out, and I strain forward to see what has happened. A woman pushes her way past the soldiers. She holds up her veil, and presses it against Jesus' face. I see her hands are shaking. The Romans do nothing, yet, but I see a few raise their whips a little higher, as if preparing to strike the woman. She pulls her veil away, and there is a muted gasp from those standing close.
I lean out farther, trying to see. As the woman turns to return to the crowd, I see what has caused the stunned reaction. Upon the veil is a face. Its features are clear, its lines distinct. The face is his. It is the face of the one who has been condemned for calling himself "Son of God."
There are tears in my eyes as I retreat back into the house. I'll hold that image in my mind for my whole life. I'll see his body bent beneath the cross; I'll see his pain etched in his every feature. But I'll also see the smile he gave to the woman with the veil.
When I see these things, I will think of the words people spoke. They say so many lies. But when I remember His face, I will know that it was truth when He said He was the Son of God.