Sara’s Easter
Did you ever wonder what happened to the people that Jesus healed? Well here’s one story of what possibly happened. I did my best at translating this from an Italian religious forum.
“….Jesus!”
Your name was the last word I uttered before dying: “I am going to get Jesus”, said my father as he left me alone to go searching for you.
“He’s arrived too late,” murmured the neighbors under their breath. In fact, I was already dead when you arrived. I was twelve years old. You were heard saying, “The child is not dead but asleep:” by the silent nonbelievers around me.
As you held my little hand, you said, “Talitha koum!” “Little girl, I say to you, get up!” I don’t know how you did it, but like a giant you traversed that darkness of my death. I opened my eyes and I saw you face, strong and with a warm smile.
Out of the blue, I noticed a wrinkle form on your forehead much like a wound. You said, “Give her something to eat,” and they obeyed you, but I never took my eyes off yours.
And this is how I began to live, thanks to you. “And thanks to Jesus – I would tell all – I have been reborn.” Since then my father and I would never leave you: two incredible years following you. Oh, the many journeys we took with you; so many words, much silence, the many sick, the many healed, the many lepers cured, the many sinners pardoned, the many afflicted consoled, and the many smiles you put on people’s faces: and each time on your beautiful body another wrinkle would form another wound.
I felt lost the day they arrested you. Why would they want to do harm to someone who always did good? Why would they want to hurt my Jesus? Why did they whip you? Why did they cover your beautiful body with spit? Why did they beat you? They even put a crown of thorns on your head: why did they treat my King in this manner?
My father told me that they nailed you to a cross; that you had pardoned us; that your mother was present; that prior to your dying, you too called on your Father; that your body was battered and bruised.
I saw your disciples that Friday evening; ashamed, they were coming back from Calvary, scared, distressed and desperate. “It’s the end,” they were saying, “it’s the end.” But I couldn’t resign myself, couldn’t forget; my body remembered and I knew, yes I knew that your love is more powerful that death.
They told me of your resurrection, that they encountered you: first some women, then Peter, John and many others. I’m ecstatic! You are reborn! Oh, how I understand that!
I haven’t seen you yet; you ascended into heaven; maybe I will not see you again; but that’s OK: my days and nights are made of you, and still, I long to hear you, hug you, and to see you.
It’s curious, at times I catch myself thinking of you,
Talking to you,
Great is the desire I have for you;
I now close my eyes in hopes of seeing your face;
The desire is so great that…
I want to die…
To be always with you, my Jesus.
Did you ever wonder what happened to the people that Jesus healed? Well here’s one story of what possibly happened. I did my best at translating this from an Italian religious forum.
“….Jesus!”
Your name was the last word I uttered before dying: “I am going to get Jesus”, said my father as he left me alone to go searching for you.
“He’s arrived too late,” murmured the neighbors under their breath. In fact, I was already dead when you arrived. I was twelve years old. You were heard saying, “The child is not dead but asleep:” by the silent nonbelievers around me.
As you held my little hand, you said, “Talitha koum!” “Little girl, I say to you, get up!” I don’t know how you did it, but like a giant you traversed that darkness of my death. I opened my eyes and I saw you face, strong and with a warm smile.
Out of the blue, I noticed a wrinkle form on your forehead much like a wound. You said, “Give her something to eat,” and they obeyed you, but I never took my eyes off yours.
And this is how I began to live, thanks to you. “And thanks to Jesus – I would tell all – I have been reborn.” Since then my father and I would never leave you: two incredible years following you. Oh, the many journeys we took with you; so many words, much silence, the many sick, the many healed, the many lepers cured, the many sinners pardoned, the many afflicted consoled, and the many smiles you put on people’s faces: and each time on your beautiful body another wrinkle would form another wound.
I felt lost the day they arrested you. Why would they want to do harm to someone who always did good? Why would they want to hurt my Jesus? Why did they whip you? Why did they cover your beautiful body with spit? Why did they beat you? They even put a crown of thorns on your head: why did they treat my King in this manner?
My father told me that they nailed you to a cross; that you had pardoned us; that your mother was present; that prior to your dying, you too called on your Father; that your body was battered and bruised.
I saw your disciples that Friday evening; ashamed, they were coming back from Calvary, scared, distressed and desperate. “It’s the end,” they were saying, “it’s the end.” But I couldn’t resign myself, couldn’t forget; my body remembered and I knew, yes I knew that your love is more powerful that death.
They told me of your resurrection, that they encountered you: first some women, then Peter, John and many others. I’m ecstatic! You are reborn! Oh, how I understand that!
I haven’t seen you yet; you ascended into heaven; maybe I will not see you again; but that’s OK: my days and nights are made of you, and still, I long to hear you, hug you, and to see you.
It’s curious, at times I catch myself thinking of you,
Talking to you,
Great is the desire I have for you;
I now close my eyes in hopes of seeing your face;
The desire is so great that…
I want to die…
To be always with you, my Jesus.
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