R
Roseanna
Guest
Many years ago I sat down at my computer on Good Friday and put my hands to the keyboard. I had just had a rather large fight with my best friend which had left me upset, and the day itself seemed to encourage me to dwell on it. What was good about Good Friday, anyway? It seemed to me to be a very depressing day–it was the day Christ died, not the day He was resurrected, so why celebrate it?
Those thoughts turned into my musings on what that original Good Friday would have been liked to a young woman very much alone in the world. Over the next several years, that six-page story fermented and grew in my mind, an ever-present part of me, until it became my first published novel, sharing the original story’s title: A Stray Drop of Blood.
It’s my hope that my reflections on what was really a miraculous day might touch others’ lives as it did my own. If you enjoy this slightly tweaked original story, you may want to check out the extended version at http://www.whitefireprinting.com/publishing Also, take a look at the review site WhiteFire hosts, on which I post: http://www.whitefireprinting.com/christianreviewonline
A Stray Drop of Blood
The crowd pushed me with violence. I was surprised to see so many people mobbing the city, the usual throngs of the season filled with wildness instead of worship. I did not know why, and no answers came from the troubled mutters around me. I could think only of the pain piercing my foot where that man stepped on it, the bruise I would have if the child did not stop elbowing me in the stomach. My stomach. My baby. My time was drawing nigh, and I prayed that nothing would happen to my child.
Dust choked me, the intensity of my coughs nearly made me fall over. A woman looked over at me with a raised eyebrow and stood on tiptoe to see over her husband’s shoulder. I should not have come here. I knew without a thought that I would find no mercy in this crowd, so I must find a way out. I began to try once again to force my way from the mob of angry people.
“You, woman! What are you doing here? Go home to your husband.â€Â
I reeled around to face the voice. It belonged to a man nearly twice my size. There was a hint of contempt in his voice, and I wondered if he knew. . . but no, that was impossible. I had never cast my gaze upon this man before. Yet he must have seen my wince, for he sneered. I put up my chin and stood to my full height. That put my head at about his chest. He grabbed my arm, whether to propel me out of the crowds or to deliver a lecture I could not tell.
The crowd surged, and a cry went up. “There he is! They are bringing him out!â€Â
A sudden rushing of the crowd nearly knocked me to the ground; only the grip of the stranger kept me on my feet. I wanted to go home. Whatever madness had led me here had turned to panic that clawed its way up my throat. My baby weighed heavily in my stomach. “Please, sir, can you help me out of here? I fear for my baby.â€Â
But the man was no longer listening to me, though his fingers still dug into my upper arm. He was facing the Fortress of Antonio, into whose courtyard the crowd had propelled us. My desire to leave stalled in the face of my reason for coming. I, too, turned to look upon the portico. The scene underway, however, was not the one I expected to see. The governor even then turned to the gathered multitude.
“I find no fault in this man,†he shouted, “but your courts have found him guilty. Shall I release him to you for the Passover?â€Â
My brows knit. The man on trial was unknown to me, but his was not the punishment I had come to see. I once more turned to my captor, opening my mouth to ask him again to assist me home.
“Shall I release the teacher?†the governor called out, confusion ringing clear in his tone. “Or Barabbas?â€Â
My heart stopped beating. I know it did, for the whole world halted in that moment as unaccountable fear flooded my being. Another man was brought out to join the one already being supported between two guards. My entire body coiled into the expression of one word that came out as little more than a squeak: “No!â€Â
“Call for Barabbas!†hissed the man with an absent pull on my arm.
“Give us Barabbas!†the crowd obeyed in a swollen voice.
“What shall I do with the one called the King of the Jews?â€Â
“Crucify him!†the crowd roared in response to another hiss from the man who held me and others like him dotted throughout the masses.
“No!†I cried, tears streaming down my cheeks. “No, you cannot! He killed my husband! He killed my husband!†Frantic now, I tried to pull my arm away so that I could either escape or run further into the crowd to make my voice heard.
“Quiet, woman!†The large man bared his teeth at me, his look now one of complete hatred. “Barabbas killed only Roman dogs. And if you, a Jewess, defiled yourself with the like, then you are lower than a dog.â€Â
He released my arm so that he could raise his back to strike. I retreated into something solid behind me, cowering like the beast I had been labeled. But when I dared to peek out from my shielding arm, he was disappearing into the crowd. My relief was short-lived as I realized the people around me were still chanting their terrible mantra.
“Release Barabbas! Crucify Jesus! Release Barabbas! Crucify Jesus!â€Â
“No!†I knew I would not be heard, but the words poured out of me. “Barabbas is a monster! What terrible thing has this Jesus done, that he deserves to die in his place? What is he guilty of?â€Â
“Nothing.â€Â
I realized at that moment that it was a man I was still leaning into the safety of, and that he had heard every word I uttered. I turned my face and looked up into the compassionate eyes of a total stranger. Answering the questions in my eyes he said, “Jesus has committed no sin, no crime. He claims only to be the Messiah, the Chosen One of Israel. He is being tried for performing miracles and for healing the ill.â€Â
“Nothing? He has done nothing?†I met his eyes once more. “Why are they hungry for the blood of a man who is only helping? So what if he thinks he is Messiah? What harm is there in that?â€Â
“He is.â€Â
My look was shocked. The man smiled.
“My name is Joshua. I have seen this Man work, I have heard his sermons. One look into his eyes, and I was never the same. This Man is the Messiah. He is God’s son.â€Â
I stared at him for a long moment. “Who he may be is no concern of mine. All I know is that Barabbas should be the one to hang on that cross.†I looked back to where Barabbas was being released and the condemned man led away. My shoulders slumped in defeat as the crowd, cheering in triumph, turned of one accord toward Golgotha. “I do not want to see an innocent man killed. Can you get me out of here, Joshua?â€Â
Joshua met my gaze, then closed his eyes. His lips were moving, as if in prayer, and a look of question, yet of peace, was on his face. He sighed and opened his eyes to the heavens, as if looking for confirmation for something. Then he looked back to me. “I could, but I will not. Come on. You and I are following the crowd.â€Â
I had never witnessed such a horrible scene in all of my life. People were throwing rocks and broken pottery, lashing out with names I had never heard, throwing this Man’s own sayings at him in an act of such mockery that I wondered how he stood it. This broken, bleeding man. Why were they taunting him? Could they not see the pain he was in?
Joshua had led me to the top of the hill, entirely too close to the sight of the crucifixions. I had a perfect view of the pathway between the people, where the criminals stumbled through with their wooden burdens. I watched as the last one fell to the ground again and again, yet the guards prodded him onward with a kick. Then he fell hard; the crowd hissed and screamed their epithets. I tried to cover my eyes, but Joshua pulled my hands away.
“Watch.â€Â
I began to cry. I did not understand why this stranger was making me witness this gruesome sight, I did not understand what was happening. All I knew was that a terrible pain had seized my abdomen, and that the smell of filth and dirt had penetrated the air completely.
The guards pulled a man from the crowd at random and threatened him with a sword. The man took up the cross that Jesus had dropped and carried it up the hill as the convict was dragged by the centurions. I looked with interest at the new cross-bearer. The look on his faceâ€â€it was almost like he took pride in this task assigned to him, that he knew something I did not about this Jesus. Then the others passed as well.
When Jesus was only a few feet away, new panic dug into my chest. What if he looked at me? I knew, knew with every portion of my being, that if he looked at me, he would see me in my completeness. He would see how black my soul had become with sin and hatred and bitterness. He would see all I had done and thought to do and wished myself capable of. He would see that though I wished him spared, it was only so that another could die in his place.
But his head did not turn in my direction. He stumbled and nearly fell, but the guard holding him jerked him back up, making his head snap down, then up in compensation. The motion shook open his wounds, and when he was lurched back to his feet, his hair shook out and sent a shower of crimson life in an arc around him. A drop of it landed on the round of my stomach.
Immediately, I felt a burning on the flesh beneath my garment. It was so quick, so debilitating that I could not even respond. A fire spread through me, devouring me, leaving in its wake a relief that brought fresh tears to my eyes. I looked down at the stain on my clothes in disbelief. It was so small, so insignificant. One little drop of red, a perfect starburst against the faded blue of my linen dress.
One little drop to soil my garment.
One little drop to cleanse my soul.
It was gone. The sin, the bitterness, the darkness, the hatred. It was gone, and it did not leave me empty. It left me filled. Filled with life, filled with hope, filled with him.
I listened to the sickening pang of metal on metal, slicing through flesh to reach wood. I heard the thuds of crosses being lowered into their pits. And I saw the Messiah’s lips whisper words that seared themselves into my soul: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.â€Â
Forgive them. The same Man who was too weak to carry his own burden was strong enough to forgive those who put it upon him. I knew not what to do or say. So I sat down on the ground and sobbed as I watched this Man die.
I refuse to go into the horrible details of this death. I do not want to remember them all, though I know the memory will never fade a shade from its crimson. I watched this Christ, this Savior die; and I knew that it was my fault. I knew it was my sins he was paying for.
I did not look up until Jesus cried out, “It is finished!â€Â
Then I stood and turned around. Joshua was waiting for me, his hand outstretched.
“You have seen enough. Let me take you home.â€Â
Many years have passed since that day. My son is growing strng and Joshua is teaching him all about his trade. I have never seen such a loving father.
The faith that sprang up in me that day compounded when we heard the stories of Christ’s resurrection, proving that he was not only a pure and blameless sacrifice, but capable of defeating death itself for all who believe in him. Now I teach my children that. And they will teach theirs. Sooner or later, somewhere down the line, someone will look back to my story and say: “All of this, from a stray drop of blood.â€Â
Those thoughts turned into my musings on what that original Good Friday would have been liked to a young woman very much alone in the world. Over the next several years, that six-page story fermented and grew in my mind, an ever-present part of me, until it became my first published novel, sharing the original story’s title: A Stray Drop of Blood.
It’s my hope that my reflections on what was really a miraculous day might touch others’ lives as it did my own. If you enjoy this slightly tweaked original story, you may want to check out the extended version at http://www.whitefireprinting.com/publishing Also, take a look at the review site WhiteFire hosts, on which I post: http://www.whitefireprinting.com/christianreviewonline
A Stray Drop of Blood
The crowd pushed me with violence. I was surprised to see so many people mobbing the city, the usual throngs of the season filled with wildness instead of worship. I did not know why, and no answers came from the troubled mutters around me. I could think only of the pain piercing my foot where that man stepped on it, the bruise I would have if the child did not stop elbowing me in the stomach. My stomach. My baby. My time was drawing nigh, and I prayed that nothing would happen to my child.
Dust choked me, the intensity of my coughs nearly made me fall over. A woman looked over at me with a raised eyebrow and stood on tiptoe to see over her husband’s shoulder. I should not have come here. I knew without a thought that I would find no mercy in this crowd, so I must find a way out. I began to try once again to force my way from the mob of angry people.
“You, woman! What are you doing here? Go home to your husband.â€Â
I reeled around to face the voice. It belonged to a man nearly twice my size. There was a hint of contempt in his voice, and I wondered if he knew. . . but no, that was impossible. I had never cast my gaze upon this man before. Yet he must have seen my wince, for he sneered. I put up my chin and stood to my full height. That put my head at about his chest. He grabbed my arm, whether to propel me out of the crowds or to deliver a lecture I could not tell.
The crowd surged, and a cry went up. “There he is! They are bringing him out!â€Â
A sudden rushing of the crowd nearly knocked me to the ground; only the grip of the stranger kept me on my feet. I wanted to go home. Whatever madness had led me here had turned to panic that clawed its way up my throat. My baby weighed heavily in my stomach. “Please, sir, can you help me out of here? I fear for my baby.â€Â
But the man was no longer listening to me, though his fingers still dug into my upper arm. He was facing the Fortress of Antonio, into whose courtyard the crowd had propelled us. My desire to leave stalled in the face of my reason for coming. I, too, turned to look upon the portico. The scene underway, however, was not the one I expected to see. The governor even then turned to the gathered multitude.
“I find no fault in this man,†he shouted, “but your courts have found him guilty. Shall I release him to you for the Passover?â€Â
My brows knit. The man on trial was unknown to me, but his was not the punishment I had come to see. I once more turned to my captor, opening my mouth to ask him again to assist me home.
“Shall I release the teacher?†the governor called out, confusion ringing clear in his tone. “Or Barabbas?â€Â
My heart stopped beating. I know it did, for the whole world halted in that moment as unaccountable fear flooded my being. Another man was brought out to join the one already being supported between two guards. My entire body coiled into the expression of one word that came out as little more than a squeak: “No!â€Â
“Call for Barabbas!†hissed the man with an absent pull on my arm.
“Give us Barabbas!†the crowd obeyed in a swollen voice.
“What shall I do with the one called the King of the Jews?â€Â
“Crucify him!†the crowd roared in response to another hiss from the man who held me and others like him dotted throughout the masses.
“No!†I cried, tears streaming down my cheeks. “No, you cannot! He killed my husband! He killed my husband!†Frantic now, I tried to pull my arm away so that I could either escape or run further into the crowd to make my voice heard.
“Quiet, woman!†The large man bared his teeth at me, his look now one of complete hatred. “Barabbas killed only Roman dogs. And if you, a Jewess, defiled yourself with the like, then you are lower than a dog.â€Â
He released my arm so that he could raise his back to strike. I retreated into something solid behind me, cowering like the beast I had been labeled. But when I dared to peek out from my shielding arm, he was disappearing into the crowd. My relief was short-lived as I realized the people around me were still chanting their terrible mantra.
“Release Barabbas! Crucify Jesus! Release Barabbas! Crucify Jesus!â€Â
“No!†I knew I would not be heard, but the words poured out of me. “Barabbas is a monster! What terrible thing has this Jesus done, that he deserves to die in his place? What is he guilty of?â€Â
“Nothing.â€Â
I realized at that moment that it was a man I was still leaning into the safety of, and that he had heard every word I uttered. I turned my face and looked up into the compassionate eyes of a total stranger. Answering the questions in my eyes he said, “Jesus has committed no sin, no crime. He claims only to be the Messiah, the Chosen One of Israel. He is being tried for performing miracles and for healing the ill.â€Â
“Nothing? He has done nothing?†I met his eyes once more. “Why are they hungry for the blood of a man who is only helping? So what if he thinks he is Messiah? What harm is there in that?â€Â
“He is.â€Â
My look was shocked. The man smiled.
“My name is Joshua. I have seen this Man work, I have heard his sermons. One look into his eyes, and I was never the same. This Man is the Messiah. He is God’s son.â€Â
I stared at him for a long moment. “Who he may be is no concern of mine. All I know is that Barabbas should be the one to hang on that cross.†I looked back to where Barabbas was being released and the condemned man led away. My shoulders slumped in defeat as the crowd, cheering in triumph, turned of one accord toward Golgotha. “I do not want to see an innocent man killed. Can you get me out of here, Joshua?â€Â
Joshua met my gaze, then closed his eyes. His lips were moving, as if in prayer, and a look of question, yet of peace, was on his face. He sighed and opened his eyes to the heavens, as if looking for confirmation for something. Then he looked back to me. “I could, but I will not. Come on. You and I are following the crowd.â€Â
I had never witnessed such a horrible scene in all of my life. People were throwing rocks and broken pottery, lashing out with names I had never heard, throwing this Man’s own sayings at him in an act of such mockery that I wondered how he stood it. This broken, bleeding man. Why were they taunting him? Could they not see the pain he was in?
Joshua had led me to the top of the hill, entirely too close to the sight of the crucifixions. I had a perfect view of the pathway between the people, where the criminals stumbled through with their wooden burdens. I watched as the last one fell to the ground again and again, yet the guards prodded him onward with a kick. Then he fell hard; the crowd hissed and screamed their epithets. I tried to cover my eyes, but Joshua pulled my hands away.
“Watch.â€Â
I began to cry. I did not understand why this stranger was making me witness this gruesome sight, I did not understand what was happening. All I knew was that a terrible pain had seized my abdomen, and that the smell of filth and dirt had penetrated the air completely.
The guards pulled a man from the crowd at random and threatened him with a sword. The man took up the cross that Jesus had dropped and carried it up the hill as the convict was dragged by the centurions. I looked with interest at the new cross-bearer. The look on his faceâ€â€it was almost like he took pride in this task assigned to him, that he knew something I did not about this Jesus. Then the others passed as well.
When Jesus was only a few feet away, new panic dug into my chest. What if he looked at me? I knew, knew with every portion of my being, that if he looked at me, he would see me in my completeness. He would see how black my soul had become with sin and hatred and bitterness. He would see all I had done and thought to do and wished myself capable of. He would see that though I wished him spared, it was only so that another could die in his place.
But his head did not turn in my direction. He stumbled and nearly fell, but the guard holding him jerked him back up, making his head snap down, then up in compensation. The motion shook open his wounds, and when he was lurched back to his feet, his hair shook out and sent a shower of crimson life in an arc around him. A drop of it landed on the round of my stomach.
Immediately, I felt a burning on the flesh beneath my garment. It was so quick, so debilitating that I could not even respond. A fire spread through me, devouring me, leaving in its wake a relief that brought fresh tears to my eyes. I looked down at the stain on my clothes in disbelief. It was so small, so insignificant. One little drop of red, a perfect starburst against the faded blue of my linen dress.
One little drop to soil my garment.
One little drop to cleanse my soul.
It was gone. The sin, the bitterness, the darkness, the hatred. It was gone, and it did not leave me empty. It left me filled. Filled with life, filled with hope, filled with him.
I listened to the sickening pang of metal on metal, slicing through flesh to reach wood. I heard the thuds of crosses being lowered into their pits. And I saw the Messiah’s lips whisper words that seared themselves into my soul: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.â€Â
Forgive them. The same Man who was too weak to carry his own burden was strong enough to forgive those who put it upon him. I knew not what to do or say. So I sat down on the ground and sobbed as I watched this Man die.
I refuse to go into the horrible details of this death. I do not want to remember them all, though I know the memory will never fade a shade from its crimson. I watched this Christ, this Savior die; and I knew that it was my fault. I knew it was my sins he was paying for.
I did not look up until Jesus cried out, “It is finished!â€Â
Then I stood and turned around. Joshua was waiting for me, his hand outstretched.
“You have seen enough. Let me take you home.â€Â
Many years have passed since that day. My son is growing strng and Joshua is teaching him all about his trade. I have never seen such a loving father.
The faith that sprang up in me that day compounded when we heard the stories of Christ’s resurrection, proving that he was not only a pure and blameless sacrifice, but capable of defeating death itself for all who believe in him. Now I teach my children that. And they will teach theirs. Sooner or later, somewhere down the line, someone will look back to my story and say: “All of this, from a stray drop of blood.â€Â