I was walking through a noisy, crowded street, on my way to the markets to get food for dinner. I was in a hurry, always in a hurry, to fill all the hungry stomachs awaiting me at home. The sun felt heavy upon me. I brushed a sweaty strand of hair from my forehead and hoisted my basket onto my other hip. 

That’s when I saw him. I stopped, cold in my tracks. It looked just like Jesus. My blood ran cold. I froze in my tracks and everything around me disappeared. 

How could it be? They had just killed him two days ago. They said the curtain in the temple was ripped in two. I knew why, too, because all our hearts were ripped in two. So many of us, who’d lived for each day with this mysterious man who made us feel so alive. How could it be him? But how could it be anyone else? He was like no one else. 

He saw me, through the crowd, he saw me. And he came over to me. No one else seemed to notice him, the crowds did not part like the sea. I shook my head to clear it. I must be dreaming.

“Hello,” he said, gently taking my basket. “Heading to the markets?”

I nodded, unable to speak. I didn’t want to wake up. I had listened to Jesus for years, but never been this close. I could smell him. I could see the sweat beading on his forehead too, and the smile in his eyes was so close.

“You’re John’s older sister.” He said it without question, but gently. 

I nodded again.

“Do you know where they are?” he asked, running his hand through his hair. When he lifted his hands I saw the scars. My hands went to my mouth and my eyes must have revealed my shock.

He looked into me and smiled. “It’s really me,” he laughed lightly. “I said I’d come back and I have. There’s nothing to fear.” He pulled his hair back from his sweaty face, like I’d seen him do a thousand times.

I started breathing again, beginning to relax a little. “Can you take me to them?” he asked.

I stopped then. I knew he didn’t need me to show him where to find my brothers. He knew everything. 

He smiled at me and laughed, “Liza, you have been waiting for me to ask you to follow me.”

I felt warmth rise in my cheeks. “Now, I am asking you to show me where your brothers are.”

We walked then, in silence. I didn’t want to get there. I didn’t want to wake up. I felt so alive next to him, so unexplainably light and free.

When we reached the door, I lifted my eyes to his. Tears stung. I had longed to be his follower, like my brothers, like Mary Magdalene and so many others who had left everything to follow him everywhere, every day. But I had a large family at home to take care of. 

“Thank you,” he said, turning to go up the stairs. Then he stopped, and slowly turned around. “You know, Liza, you’re welcome to come with me.” 

“But–” I stammered, startled by the sound of my own voice. But he did not disappear. I did not wake up.

“Bring them with you,” he waved his hand toward my home. “You can all eat with us tonight. There is more than enough to go around.” His smile was broad, and mine grew to match it.

“I will!” I said, then rushed home to get my seven children.

 

Note: For years I’ve been wanting to write a scene about encountering the risen Jesus in person. So this year we did it as a writing prompt in my writing group. What came out, with no planning, was some deep frustrations I have had at times, feeling on the sidelines as a woman. But the simple truth is that it’s never been that way to Jesus.