His Kingdom Come: A Novel

By Margaret Montreuil

The Agony of the Cross Loomed for Jesus

Our brother Jesus was on a reckless course and I had left Jerusalem because I was angry with love for him. I felt helpless to change him and terrified for his life.

James and his brothers dont know what to do with Jesus. Is their eldest brother the prophesied Messiah, or is he simply out of his mind? Soon enough, events in Jerusalem during Passover bring James and his family to their knees with sorrow: Jesus has been crucified.

As the family and followers of Jesus eventually encounter the risen Lord, they joyfully come to believe in him as the promised Messiah. But their own Jewish leaders want to stamp out the heretical believersand the high priest, Caiaphas, takes extreme measures and enlists a young Pharisee named Saul to begin a violent assault against them. In the face of threats, persecution, and death, James, John, Peter, and the rest of the church must rely on raw and untested faith to overcome fearful times and carry out Jesus command to build a kingdom that will change the world in his name.

See Christs final weeks on earth through the eyes of those closest to him. Witness the early churchs exciting first daysand then its struggle to remain. Take an up-close and intimate journey into first-century Israel in

His Kingdom Come

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781449708436

Margaret Montreuil

Margaret Montreuil’s past years in a Messianic congregation, her visits to Israel, and her in-depth historical research, has helped her describe the primitive church in Jerusalem. Author of God in Sandals, this is her second New Testament biblical novel.

Book preview

His

Kingdom

Come

A NOVEL

MARGARET MONTREUIL

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Copyright © 2011 Margaret Montreuil

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-0842-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-0844-3 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-0843-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010940690

Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/23/2010

Cover photo:

Pillars in the ancient Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem, Israel.

DEDICATED TO

Rena Chrysler

"A powerful and engaging tale that transports you right into New Testament Israel! Margaret Montreuil creatively weaves together elements from Scripture, history, and tradition to create a believable and true-to-life account of the events surrounding the cross of Christ and the newborn church’s subsequent struggle against persecution. His Kingdom Come makes you feel as though you are walking alongside James, Peter, and John with its emotion, action, adventure, and intrigue. Scripture will come alive for you in this inspired book!"

John David Kudrick

Editor, Writer, Consultant

www.johndavidkudrick.com

"Margaret Montreuil has done it again! This latest gem in a series of books about the life of Jesus Christ glows with the warmth of divine friendship. Margaret’s writing transports the reader back to ancient Israel very realistically and she knows the layout of the land and the social and religious climate of those times.

"If you have ever wished there was more to read between the lines of our familiar, succinct Gospel stories—well, here it is. Margaret has fleshed out the biblical characters that we have read about all of our lives and she has introduced a few fictional ones so we can see the familiar events from new perspectives. I especially liked Judah ben-Avram, depicted as a Jewish scribe in Jerusalem, well-educated and esteemed in his field. The character first appeared in God in Sandals, Margaret’s previous novel. In His Kingdom Come, Margaret makes an intriguing and plausible connection between the fictional scribe and the early Hebrew writer of the hypothetical textual source modern scholars call the Q Document. The premise is that there likely was an earlier text on the Sayings of Jesus that both Matthew and Luke used as a source for their Gospels.

"His Kingdom Come will give you a personal look at the early days of the church and draw you closer to its Founder."

Rena L. Chrysler, M.A.T.

"I love Margaret Montreuil’s writing of this new book, His Kingdom Come. I found myself thinking about the story while at work and I couldn’t wait to get home to read more. The story is riveting and informative—and I enjoyed the humor she threw in at times coming from its characters. She’s brought the biblical story and its characters to life for me."

Francesca Welsh, Minneapolis, Minnesota

CONTENTS

Part I: The Brethren

Part II: The Commission

Part III: The Promise

Part IV: The Beginning

Part V: The Way

Part I

The Brethren

ONE

James

This Passover in Jerusalem, a good many people wondered if Jesus from Nazareth was the Messiah. As for me, the man in question was my brother and, lately, I feared he’d lost his mind.

If everything were good and right, I’d stand and pray before the presence of Ha-Shem in the temple court. Instead, I stopped to listen, frozen in place just beyond the gate called Beautiful. A single, angry voice echoed from inside. I cringed with certainty. It was him.

I began to push through the solid wall of humanity that blocked my path. Festival pilgrims, like me, filled the entire court of Gentiles, the portico, and overflowed to the steps near the gate I’d just entered. Let me pass! Forgive me, I said in earnest as I worked my way through the bodies. Angry faces and rebukes met me, but I kept on. After awhile, I looked straight up to get my bearings. The high ceilings and majestic columns towered above me. I’d managed to force my way into Solomon’s Colonnade, the largest sheltered space in the temple where the scribes and rabbis liked to teach.

I knew, as did everyone, no one had ever seen so many people pack into the temple to hear one man speak. Strange, considering Jesus had been banned by the Sanhedrin from stepping foot in here.

I pressed on until at last I broke through the front line of listeners and caught my first glimpse of him. With his right arm raised and his prayer mantle slipping down from his head, I saw him from the back as he stood across from me at the other side of the gathering that surrounded him.

He faced a group of ruling officials and shouted at them: Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! His right arm sliced through the air. You shut the kingdom of heaven in men’s faces. You yourselves do not enter, nor will you let those enter who are trying to. He looked down with a shaking head.

I almost rushed out to him. It would be impossible to get him away from here—and I would have to fight him as well.

My heart pounded with fear—so many leaders—I couldn’t count them all. They hadn’t come to hear him teach. What had they in mind to do? I wondered if this crowd stood between him and arrest.

What had so utterly changed him in three short years?

His voice called out: Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You travel over land and sea to win a single convert, and when he becomes one, you make him twice as much a son of hell as you are.

I covered my eyes. Adonai, make him stop!

I looked up in time to see him turn and step in my direction. He didn’t see me and I felt relieved knowing my face blended in with all the rest that stared at him. The vein in his forehead stuck out. Usually, this only happened when he laughed hard or when he strained himself.

He gave his attention to the chief priests, who were easy to pick out by their headpieces and the many tiny bells sewn to the hem of their robes. They stood together in a group to my left.

Woe to you, blind guides! Jesus bellowed. "You say, ‘If anyone swears by the temple, it means nothing; but if anyone swears by the gold on the temple, oh, then he is bound by his oath.’"

He began to pace back and forth. You blind fools! Which is greater: the gold, or the temple that makes the gold sacred? You say, ‘If anyone swears by the altar, it means nothing; but if anyone swears by the gift on it, he is bound by his oath.’ You blind men! Which is greater: the gift, or the altar that makes the gift sacred?

He spread his arms apart; his left hand pointed toward the altar and his voice rose louder phrase by phrase, in a slow, accusing chant:

"Therefore, he who swears by the altar swears by it and by everything on it.

"And he who swears by the temple swears by it and by the one who dwells in it.

"And he who swears by heaven swears by God’s throne and by the one who sits on it."

He turned around. Arms folded across chest, eyes cast down, he stepped to the center of the clearing. After a few moments of complete silence, he looked up and saw several rulers walking away. He went after them and began shouting at their backs: "Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You build tombs for the prophets and decorate the graves of the righteous. And you say, ‘If we had lived in the days of our forefathers, we would not have taken part with them in shedding the blood of the prophets.’

So you testify against yourselves that you are the descendants of those who murdered the prophets.

Several chief priests turned around and stared at him, eyes wide. Then, at the top of his voice, Jesus yelled: Fill up then!—the measure of the sin of your forefathers! His voice cracked from emotion and strain. You brood of vipers! How will you escape being condemned to hell?

He pulled two of his disciples, the fishermen Simon and John, into the open space to stand beside him. Therefore, I am sending you prophets … He pointed at a scribe who was not with the others, a man I’d met before by the name of Judah, "… and wise men and teachers. Some of them you will kill and crucify; others you will flog in your synagogues and pursue from town to town.

"And so upon you will come all the righteous blood that has been shed on earth, from the blood of righteous Abel to the blood of Zechariah son of Berekiah, whom you murdered!—between the temple and the altar." He pointed at the men and then the temple.

I tell you the truth, all this will come upon this generation.

The crowd had grown quiet, amazing considering how many people stood shoulder to shoulder. He’d surprised everyone in the place—including his disciples. I could see astonishment on their faces.

Jesus broke into sobs.

When he looked up, he spoke with a level but weepy voice: O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. He shook his head. But you were not willing.

His words hit me. He spoke as though he were … as if he, himself, were … Adonai.

I dazedly repeated his words to myself: "I will send you prophets … I longed to gather your children together …" No wonder the rulers have banned him from the temple.

My heart ached—my brother was not only in peril, he deceived himself and everyone who believed his ravings. Why the multitudes hung on his words, I couldn’t guess.

I turned to leave. I couldn’t bear to listen anymore. Behind me, I heard him say: Look, your house is left to you desolate. For I tell you, you will not see me again until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’

We both left the temple then, in opposite directions. I turned in time to see his disciples trailing behind him on their way toward the eastern gate.

He would never be forgiven by the Sanhedrin after what he’d just done. Would heaven forgive? I thought about that for a second and then sighed. There was no way to reason with him. No stopping him. I’d tried. And now he’d gone way too far. Today’s demonstration was only a fraction of what he’d done this week. As I worked my way through the crowd, I considered everything.

On the first day, he had welcomed the praise of a huge crowd; he had accepted their songs—the great psalms meant for the ears of the Son of David, the Messiah. The next day, he stormed through the temple marketplace, overturning tables and scattering coins and merchandise. Moneychangers made it possible to convert our coins into temple currency—the only acceptable money for temple use. As for the buying of birds and animals necessary for sacrifice—this was a convenience for every pilgrim. Granted, the Sanhedrin dealers charged the festival crowd too much because we had no choice but to pay their inflated prices. Was that injustice what had ignited his temper so fiercely? He broke open cages and shooed doves and animals away, making them run wildly about the place. If he thought they desecrated the holy place, his efforts made things worse. What drove him to do such things? He thought he was a prophet. But were his ravings that of a prophet or of a crazy man—or of a man possessed?

He’d been in Jerusalem for only three days and had caused nothing but trouble. I wondered how the rest of the week would go. I returned to the valley of tents where my family and neighbors from Nazareth camped south of Jerusalem’s walls and I listened to people talk. It didn’t surprise me to hear negative things from them; after all, he’d blasphemed in our synagogue about two and a half years ago.

And so, I went to see our mother. She was staying in Bethany with women followers of Jesus. We spoke to each other in the home’s stable, the only private place I could find.

We should all go home, I said. Jesus is no longer himself. Whoever he is now, who can say? I only know this: because of him, none of us are safe in Jerusalem.

I could have said worse things. I could have told her he’d joined forces with Satan. I nearly did say that except she stopped my mouth with her hand. And with that tender, sad look on her face, she silenced me with one word. James.

We should leave.

Go to him. Talk to him. Her eyes pleaded with me.

I shook my head. Did she think we could force the waterfall back up the mountain?

He knows what he’s doing; he will explain, surely—

What could he possibly say to make up for what he’s done?

James, please.

I drew up to her, kissed her forehead, and said, Shalom, Mother.

After I opened the stable door to leave, I turned around to face her and said, I want nothing more to do with him. Brother or no brother—he’s out of his mind or he’s possessed by the Devil. If he keeps this up, he will bring down Rome on our heads and the temple will be taken from us. The least thing that could happen is we’d all be killed just for being his family.

He’ll be in Bethany tonight. Come back. Give him a chance—

No. I cannot.

I left her then and returned to our tent. That night I told my three younger brothers we would leave for Nazareth the next morning.

TWO

James

I laid awake the next morning, eyes closed, wondering if Mother had spoken to Jesus about me. My brothers tiptoed around in the tent and I knew from their quiet whispers that they hoped I would change my decision to leave. But I arose determined to go. They could see on my face that I was beyond any kind of conversation about it. And so, after a late breakfast, we struck camp while everyone else busied themselves with preparations for the day. This was the eve of the Day of Passover and the rituals would begin this afternoon and continue on into the evening’s meal.

We took the shortest route to Jericho by way of a footpath called Wadi Kelt. This was a narrow, rough road that zigzagged through the craggy mountains and gorges that lie between Jerusalem and Jericho. It brought us from the heights of the holy city to the low land and was the hardest part of our journey home. Nothing grew in this wilderness: no trees, no plants, and no civilization. We passed beneath overhanging rock and along edges of high cliffs. We stopped often to catch our breath and rest our limbs. Our donkey, Sheba, did well, but we had to take some of our load of things off of him. And, we had to stay alert. I carried a short sword, as did Joses. Robbers took advantage of the pilgrims passing through this area during the festival weeks, especially during the three annual ones that were mandatory to attend in Jerusalem. Passover was one of them.

Because we left Jerusalem later in the morning than we should have, we were trapped in the mountains and unable to reach Jericho by nightfall. We were blessed to find a wide, open cave, although it was shallow. Its floor was nearly even and large enough for four men to lie down. We tethered Sheba close by and covered up our belongings with half of our camel skins. I draped the other half of our tent at the cave’s opening to block the wind. We knew better than to light a fire that would bring attention to ourselves. We prayed for angels to protect us from the bandits that might be hiding in the caves around us. I shivered from cold and fear throughout the night. None of us slept enough, except our Passover lamb, which Simon insisted we not leave behind. The lamb had snuggled up beside him under his blanket and slept through the night.

At daybreak, we were on our way, and by midmorning we reached Jericho and the valley of the Jordan River that stretches from Judea in the south to Galilee in the north. Mountain ranges run the entire length of the river valley, hemming it in on both sides. We usually traveled by this route, rather than the most direct one through Samaria. This way was easier going and, because of the river, water was plentiful.

We had the monotony ahead—a few days of it. I welcomed this part of the journey, glad to let my mind wander. Normally, I would be holding the reins of Sheba, leading him along while talking with various friends and relatives, all of us traveling together in a caravan hailing from Nazareth.

Nothing, though, was normal about this trek home. Alone with my thoughts, my eyes were stayed on Sheba’s swishing tail, oblivious of the occasional rocks in my own path. I kept reliving moments, rethinking everything, analyzing my opinions.

Joses was mute beside me, still angry at me for leaving Jerusalem. I was the eldest now and I had forced the issue. Our younger brothers, Simon and Jude, walked at the head of Sheba. They weren’t leading him; Sheba knew the way home. He even knew which path to take when it was time to fill our water skins at the river. We’d heaped a load on top of Sheba, but it should have been our mother riding there, not this haphazard pile-up of things.

A vivid memory flashed through my mind and I smiled to myself. A few years ago, Jesus had been the one to name Sheba. We didn’t always name our animals, but Sheba became a full member of our family that day. It was weeks after we had brought the colt home. During that time, the donkey refused to cooperate with us. He ate a lot and didn’t earn his keep. One particular day, Jesus had been working with him, without any success, to get him to move a pile of bamboo sticks from the bottom of a hill to the place where we were making a thatched roof. The donkey refused to walk in the right direction no matter how much coaxing and prodding Jesus did. At last fed up, Jesus scolded him, Sheba! You are Sheba, for you are as rebellious as the man who took up his cause against King David.

And, that same evening, under the firelight of our oil lamps, Jesus told the children, who, at that time, included nieces and nephews, that our new donkey was to be called Sheba. He explained, "Once in the kingdom of King David, there rose up a rebel whose name was Sheba the son of Bichri, a Benjamite. And Sheba blew a trumpet, and said: ‘We have no share in David, nor do we have inheritance in the son of Jesse; every man to his tents, O Israel!’

And, so, every man of Israel, not those of Judah, deserted the king, and they followed Sheba the son of Bichri instead. But the men of Judah, from the Jordan as far as Jerusalem, remained loyal to their king.

Sheba—the donkey—eventually turned out all right but his name had stuck. I looked at him now, seemingly unbothered by the bleating lamb that complained relentlessly from a tethered gunnysack that swung back and forth at Sheba’s side. The nuisance was a constant reminder that things had gone terribly wrong at the festival. If we were where we belonged, we would be celebrating the traditions of our people, singing songs and making memories. But here we were—listening to this racket. And it was my doing. At the very least, we should have left the lamb behind. I whacked him with my hand, just a quick hit to the head. But he continued; only louder now, higher pitched. Joses glared at me.

How can we stop this noise? I asked. Joses looked away.

I longed for nightfall—to fall into the forgetfulness of sleep. But, God of my fathers, don’t let me dream. Dreams can exaggerate what is most dreaded or feared. I had enough to contend with while awake.

A sudden gust of wind swirled about us, blowing sand into my eyes. I hoped the sky would stay clear; there was nothing worse than this tramp through foul weather. The early spring rains were welcome, but not during the festivals when we had to travel on foot so far. It took a week for us to travel to Jerusalem and a week back. I looked over at Joses. He felt my glance and looked back at me. And, because our eyes met, he decided to speak.

We shouldn’t have left without her, he said.

I had wondered when this conversation would come up and here it was.

We had no choice, I replied.

We should have at least told her we were leaving. Now she’ll have to return with Salome, and Cleopas always stays longer than she likes. After a pause, he added, By now, she must know we’re gone.

I tried to convince her to come home with us.

So you are assuming she knows we’ve left without her?

Joses, it was obvious to her that we planned to leave. Now stop this, will you?

The sound of hooves crunching ground was the only noise for a couple of minutes; even the lamb had quieted. This suddenly amazed me—the lamb was silent.

I ignored Joses even though he stared at me. You shouldn’t have said so many things against Jesus, he said. You drove her to him. She isn’t safe in Bethany. I can’t believe you left her there.

The Blessed One will protect her.

Joses shook his head. It’s easy for you to say, but if you believe in Ha-Shem’s protection, why have we run away like cowards?

Say what you will. I reached for the water bag I had strapped to Sheba and unfastened it. I lifted the long, narrow skin with both hands and gulped the wetness down.

Joses was so much like our father. Named after him, Joses was a nickname for Joseph. Like him, Joses was a quiet man for the most part, but when he did say something, it was something worth hearing.

Our father was born to a family of builders and he passed the trade down to all of his sons. We worked in Nazareth and nearby villages; we had a gang of cousins and an uncle who worked with us as well. If it wasn’t a big project, we had the constant repair work and the making of household items and farming implements. If we went to Sepphoris, we could usually be hired out on building projects. Jesus and Joses, especially, were known in that city to several building masters as being highly skilled and dependable. I stayed closer to home. Plus, I never had the desire for carpentry and stonecutting—not the hands-on work—although I did a share of it. My part was to hire men and wagons to get our materials to Nazareth or to our job sites. If Jesus and Joses were away on a project, I oversaw the younger workers, including Jude and Simon, on smaller jobs at home. I handled the records and the money. I occasionally helped with roofing and repair work, if I was needed. Our family’s work was not what I wanted to do, but it was how I earned a living. I preferred studies and took an active part in our synagogue whenever I could.

My wife didn’t mind when I decided we should move out of the sprawling old house of my father Joseph and into a small place of our own. I couldn’t afford to hire help for my own project, and so Jesus and I spent backbreaking months hewing out the stones ourselves, often working together under torchlight late into the nights. He understood my need to have a quiet house, a place to think.

Late one afternoon, we sat down for a break in the shade and I noticed blood on the rag he used to wipe sweat off of his face. His right forefinger was bleeding. While I had been lifting rocks into the wagon, Jesus had been breaking them down beforehand with his hammer and chisel. Appreciating all of his help, I began to feel sorry for him. He worked hard all the time and had little time for himself. He had nothing to call his own. No wife, no children.

I brought up a worn topic; one that would end as it always did before.

I don’t understand you, I had said. Why won’t you marry and have children of your own? Don’t you want to have the same joy that you see I have?

No, James. Don’t start this again.

Why can’t I convince you? … ‘It is not good—’

‘—for man to be alone.’ He finished quoting the Scripture.

You should train up your own children, not everyone else’s in the household. You deserve to know that most wonderful blessing—that of lying with a woman you love in your arms.

"I deserve to be left alone about it."

That’s the problem; you are too alone.

Yes, I am alone and free to help you build this house. He smiled.

Jesus, what a wonder it is to hold a newborn babe, your own son or daughter, and to look into the perfect little face … These are the greatest joys, gifts from heaven. You are missing the best in life.

James, listen. I do what my Father asks of me.

So Ha-Shem is the one to blame?

Blame? Jesus laughed softly, rose up, and walked away from me.

I followed him back to the rocks; he picked up his tools.

Why are you so stubborn? How long do you intend to wait?

He ignored me and began hammering chisel to stone. I put my hand on his arm to stop him and he dropped the tools and turned to face me, arms folded across chest. Silent, stern, he looked at me.

When will be the right time? I asked.

Time has nothing to do with it. I do whatever the Father wants me to do.

What—toiling every day to provide food for the many mouths and keep the tax collectors at bay? Putting up with a house full of relatives?

He looked at the ground and took a deep breath. Thinking I was making headway, I pressed on. It could be wrong for you to wait. What of passion, what of that kind of desire? You should marry.

He shook his head and looked up. With my heart and mind, I have made a covenant with my eyes not to look at the virgins.

I laughed at him. Then look at the widows. You are the right age now for a couple of them in Nazareth.

He half smiled and shook his head. He turned and bent down to his tools, picked them up and stepped to the wagon, carefully placing them in his wooden box. He reached for his mantle and said, You’ve ruined me for the rest of the day. Let’s go.

Now here he was, a rabbi traipsing around the country with disciples. A rabbi. What a surprise. Between the two of us, I would be the one to do such things. If I’d had the chance, I would have studied in Jerusalem, at the School of Hillel. And later, perhaps, I would settle down as a rabbi in a town somewhere, or in a great city, either in or outside of Israel. Only one third of our Jewish people lived in the land given to us by our forefathers; the rest were scattered throughout the world. I had always thought the perfect life would be to study and teach in Jerusalem, but being from a poor family in Nazareth, it was an impossible dream. But … Jesus? I would never have imagined such things for him. And, here he was now, a self-proclaimed rabbi—teaching in Jerusalem and all over the country.

What changed him? Looking back on our last conversation about marriage, I wondered if he knew he’d one day become a rabbi. Why didn’t he tell me teaching was his desire and the reason to not marry anyone? Even so, he could have married. Either way, I would have understood. Why couldn’t we be true to each other? Why couldn’t we talk now about the strange claims he was making, about the impossible things he was doing and saying? I no longer knew him. He was someone I no longer wanted to know. He had become dangerous to our people and our temple.

If Father were still alive, what might he have done in Jerusalem to stop Jesus? Surely, he would have objected the same as me. What would he have done in my place? Was there any other recourse I could have taken?

Joses interrupted my thoughts, pressing me again, What is worse than running away when so much might depend on you?

I had never heard Joses speak so harshly to me before, and he had become relentless.

You know full well we are not running away.

You couldn’t get us out of Jerusalem faster. And why have we left Mother behind? You aren’t thinking clearly. You have no idea what you’re really doing, do you?

We’re doing the right thing by leaving. I felt my face flush.

No … no, we are not, Joses said. We’re abandoning our own flesh and blood. He coughed and spat on the ground, and then he looked away from me.

Mother will be all right. No harm will come to her. I didn’t believe my own words, though; we had no idea what Mother was dealing with in Jerusalem. She’d joined the women that followed Jesus around.

I don’t mean her, Joses said, stopping.

I, too, halted, and then turned to face him. Only our eyes did the talking now. Moments later, I called out to Jude and Simon; Jude turned to face us and walked backward.

We’ll catch up! I shouted to them.

I looked again at Joses. I saw fresh tracks of tears on dusty cheeks. He said, You know how she feels about Jesus. And Lazarus’ house is being so closely watched. We shouldn’t have left her there. We shouldn’t have left Jesus, either. I fear for his life. Don’t you?

No one can talk to him, I replied. He’s set on making enemies. I shuddered remembering what I’d seen and heard of Jesus in the temple courts. I looked at Joses, knowing the unwanted tears were brimming in my eyes. In a strangled voice, I added, He’s brought this upon himself, and on us. Why, we could be arrested just for talking to him. With the words, tears spilled down my face.

Joses drew closer and placed a gentle