Dust hovered in the late afternoon light as I pulled my shawl tighter and edged closer to the back of the crowd. The marketplace had emptied. We all heard the shouting outside the Council Hall. Jerusalem was under Roman rule, but today it wasn’t the soldiers we feared—it was the sharp tongues of our own leaders and the way they turned truth into a crime. A man named Stephen was on trial, though I doubt Pilate even knew his name. To them, he's just another Hebrew stirring trouble.
But I knew him differently. He had healed my mother with nothing but a prayer. No silver exchanged hands, no boasting. Just two hands trembling with compassion and eyes that dared to look past my shame. Still, I never thanked him. I’d been too proud.
Stephen stood tall before the priests, hands bound, yet face glowing as if he saw something none of us could. His voice didn’t shake. He spoke of our ancestors—Abraham, Joseph, Moses. He spoke of stiff-necked hearts, of pride masking as righteousness. Somewhere deep in my chest, those words struck. Because he wasn’t just speaking about them. He was speaking about us. About me.
The mob turned unpredictable when he said he saw heaven opened.
“I see the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God,” he cried, head tilted back like he beheld a sunrise.
The cry of voices drowned him out then. Rocks were already in hands. I couldn’t move. My stomach twisted as sandals scraped the earth and fury rose like a storm.
I don’t remember dropping to my knees, only that I covered my ears as the first stone hit. He never shouted. He never begged. Instead, over the chaos: “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”
It should have been a curse. A plea. Something human.
But it wasn’t—it was grace.
My hands shook as I crawled away from the crowd, the sun now dim behind clouds of dust and shame. I wept beneath a fig tree outside the city gate, my body numb. Thirty years of temple offerings, rituals, and silence hadn’t softened my heart the way Stephen’s final breath just had.
“Why?” I whispered.
Footsteps approached. I didn’t look up until I felt warmth—real, steady warmth—settle beside me. A man, weathered yet somehow radiant, knelt gently. His eyes, darker than the sky, bore into mine—not with judgment, but knowing.
“I saw you when you wept,” He said softly. “And I see you still.”
His words caught something in me—bitter pride I didn’t know I’d swallowed whole. It cracked.
“Was it true?” I whispered. “What Stephen said—about You…?”
He didn’t nod. He didn’t need to. He only held my gaze until the tremble in my soul quieted.
Then, He touched my shoulder. In that moment, the weight I'd been dragging—of pretending, of hiding, of fearing truth—slipped from me like old skin.
“I want to see.” My voice broke.
“You will,” He answered.
He rose and walked toward the city. I watched until He disappeared behind the stone walls, leaving no trace except the stillness in my chest.
And this time... I chased after truth.
Dust hovered in the late afternoon light as I pulled my shawl tighter and edged closer to the back of the crowd. The marketplace had emptied. We all heard the shouting outside the Council Hall. Jerusalem was under Roman rule, but today it wasn’t the soldiers we feared—it was the sharp tongues of our own leaders and the way they turned truth into a crime. A man named Stephen was on trial, though I doubt Pilate even knew his name. To them, he's just another Hebrew stirring trouble.
But I knew him differently. He had healed my mother with nothing but a prayer. No silver exchanged hands, no boasting. Just two hands trembling with compassion and eyes that dared to look past my shame. Still, I never thanked him. I’d been too proud.
Stephen stood tall before the priests, hands bound, yet face glowing as if he saw something none of us could. His voice didn’t shake. He spoke of our ancestors—Abraham, Joseph, Moses. He spoke of stiff-necked hearts, of pride masking as righteousness. Somewhere deep in my chest, those words struck. Because he wasn’t just speaking about them. He was speaking about us. About me.
The mob turned unpredictable when he said he saw heaven opened.
“I see the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God,” he cried, head tilted back like he beheld a sunrise.
The cry of voices drowned him out then. Rocks were already in hands. I couldn’t move. My stomach twisted as sandals scraped the earth and fury rose like a storm.
I don’t remember dropping to my knees, only that I covered my ears as the first stone hit. He never shouted. He never begged. Instead, over the chaos: “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”
It should have been a curse. A plea. Something human.
But it wasn’t—it was grace.
My hands shook as I crawled away from the crowd, the sun now dim behind clouds of dust and shame. I wept beneath a fig tree outside the city gate, my body numb. Thirty years of temple offerings, rituals, and silence hadn’t softened my heart the way Stephen’s final breath just had.
“Why?” I whispered.
Footsteps approached. I didn’t look up until I felt warmth—real, steady warmth—settle beside me. A man, weathered yet somehow radiant, knelt gently. His eyes, darker than the sky, bore into mine—not with judgment, but knowing.
“I saw you when you wept,” He said softly. “And I see you still.”
His words caught something in me—bitter pride I didn’t know I’d swallowed whole. It cracked.
“Was it true?” I whispered. “What Stephen said—about You…?”
He didn’t nod. He didn’t need to. He only held my gaze until the tremble in my soul quieted.
Then, He touched my shoulder. In that moment, the weight I'd been dragging—of pretending, of hiding, of fearing truth—slipped from me like old skin.
“I want to see.” My voice broke.
“You will,” He answered.
He rose and walked toward the city. I watched until He disappeared behind the stone walls, leaving no trace except the stillness in my chest.
And this time... I chased after truth.
