Today she set out to celebrate the Passover with her family. It is a special time, a holy time. Time to worship and time to meet friends and family who lived too far away for regular visits. She has been doing this for as long as she could remember, first with her parents and now with her husband and children.
But there had never been a Passover like this. Everyone was restless. There were rumors that the great teacher Jesus had come, there were rumors of a nighttime trial. And now the Romans were clearing the path. With no choice, she steps aside and watches as procession moves slowly by. There are the Roman guards in their armor.
And there is a man, bloodied and bruised, barely able to keep to his feet as he carries a heavy cross down the street.
She hears weeping, listens to the murmur of the crowd as they pass quiet speculation and information from person to person. This is Jesus, the great teacher. No, it can’t be. But it is. Wasn’t he supposed to be the Messiah? This is no king.
As she watches, he falls.