Esther's Story: Journey From The Cross

By P. Thomas

"Finally, I could see ahead the habitation of cruelty; its steep walls of layered bricks seemed to be like a stone mountain that cast a dark shadow of death onto the street below." Esther was now at the place and time when she would ultimately understand what God had been preparing her for. Her journey begins when she is twelve and with her younger brother, Jacob, set out to find their missing father. When the desperate search leads the frightened children to the cross of Jesus, they are horrified to witness the death of their father, as the thief next to Him. Now homeless orphans, Mary Magdalene adopts them and becomes instrumental in Esther's developing faith during the dynamic events of the early Church, allowing us to witness the birth of Christianity through the eyes of this child. Even though she hears powerful lessons of God's truth taught by Andrew and other disciples, her faith struggles to grow hindered by adolescent rebellion that fantasizes about a life of luxury contrary to the one she imagines God has planned for her. Tempted by a gorgeous red silk fabric to follow her heart's desires, she is separated from Mary's protection and sin places her at the mercy of a dangerous ugly world. Her poor decisions cause her to make many mistakes, but as she overcomes each, she learns what God expects from her and finds His strength to prevail over any adversity even those inside her. Bending her will to His, she becomes fit for His service, giving her the spiritual fortitude to face persecutions, and the agonizing martyrdom of those close to her. The hand of God can be seen in each inspirational moment, as miraculous interventions unfold, eventually bringing her to a place and life she could never have imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635753776

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Esther’s Story

Journey From The Cross

P.K. Thomas

ISBN 978-1-63575-376-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63575-377-6 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by P.K. Thomas

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

To my beloved husband with love and appreciation for your help and support.

Chapter 1

The Stillness Is Broken

Being only twelve at the time, death was a disturbing mystery to me. Many times, I would walk by the homeless who slept in the dirt or against dark alley walls and see one with his eyes staring up off into oblivion, his face void of the color of life. Where had he gone? I wondered. When my mother died, I saw her body lying so stiff; I kissed her cold face, but she was not there. Her presence was no longer within the empty hard form that lay before me. The memories of her vibrant smile, her laughing eyes, and her soft touch were so clear to me; but the mother I knew was no longer in that body. Where was she? Why did she have to leave? Why did she have to leave me?

Since she died, my father and my younger brother, Jacob, were all that was left in my family, a family others called the dirty poor. Hunger was an everyday occurrence, yet father always managed somehow to bring us enough food to keep us alive. I never knew how or where he got it, and he made no attempt to explain where the food came from, so I asked no questions.

Then, father’s behavior began to change. As if he was distancing himself from us, he started being away more than he was home. One day, he came in very late. Fear darkened his eyes, as he nervously seemed to try to look behind himself while he spoke. With a tremor in his voice, he insisted that Jacob and I must go to Iyhanda, a small village just east of the city where we were to stay with some friends of his until he could join us later.

Esther, you remember long ago when I took you to their house, don’t you? he asked, as he closed his eyes tightly and kissed me hard on the forehead.

Yes, I said, looking up at him with widening eyes of anxious thoughts.

Do you remember how to get there? he asked sternly, looking down at me with a deep furrowed brow and taut narrowing eyes that now all of a sudden seemed to be only an attempt to hide a deeper trepidation for his daughter and son.

I nodded yes, no longer able to speak because of the building apprehension starting to trouble my spirit. Then he leaned over to hug and kiss Jacob in a lingering embrace before he left. Walking to the door, he looked to his left, briefly hesitating for a cautious moment, then abruptly turned to the right, and walked swiftly away down the empty street. He was gone.

So it was my brother and I began our long journey that evening. The warm night seemed heavy in darkness weighed down by a dreadful stillness. The silence smothered with an overwhelming fear that seemed to follow me, as though a wrong was going to be done this night that no man could undo. The normal sounds of nocturnal animals scurrying about for food was missing—no owls or night birds called out, not even one cricket chirped. A frightening sense of loneliness made my pounding heart constrict my throat as if I was being strangled. It seemed to suffocate my breath, filling my eyes with tears that blurred my vision as I walked with an ever increasing urgency. Pulling Jacob by his outstretched hand along behind me, his quick steps struggled to keep pace with my determined stride to get there as quickly as possible.

When we arrived at Iyhanda, the quiet town slept undisturbed by, no rather unaware of, this ghastly sense of doom that permeated the air. Reaching the house where father had told us to go, I looked inside only to be thoroughly confused by what I saw, because it was empty. Inside, my troubled thoughts questioned why father sent us to this place. Then, I became frightened. What happened? Is there something wrong? Where did the people go?

Is this where father is? Jacob asked wearily; his tired, drooping eyes fighting sleep.

No, he isn’t here yet, I said with a calm monotone voice, trying not to show my rising alarm. Then, inwardly searching for a direction as to what we should do now, I considered our options. Should we wait here or should we try to find out where the people have gone? Where do we go? Perhaps, we should try to find father. My mind was swirling with questions. It seemed so hopeless, because I could not see any clear answers.

Choosing the plan I thought best, I said to Jacob with as much confidence as I could muster, I think maybe we should head back home to the city. Then trying to reassure him, but probably more to convince myself that it really was the only alternative we had at the moment, I added, Maybe, we’ll meet father on his way here, then we could join him, and he will tell us what to do.

So tired and hungry, we started to walk back home, resting often along the way when Jacob, not being able to go on, would simply collapse down onto the dirt. Soon, shafts of the early dawn’s light became visible on the distant horizon, but the breaking of the darkness did not remove the deafening silence in the surrounding hills, in fact, it seemed more ominous than the night before because the birds did not sing to greet its arrival. Even our bare feet on the sandy lane made no noise to follow the progress of our passage along the desolate lane.

By the time we reached the city, the sun was already climbing in the sky, but the normally busy and noisy bustle of city life was queerly missing; not a soul met us on the road. The place we called home, which was nothing more than an old abandoned stone house crumbling to the ground with its walls a mere unstable mass of tottering loose blocks, was unexplainably empty. Our blankets were even gone from the straw lump bundles where we used to lie down to sleep. Weak and hungry, I found some dried breadcrumbs left behind like a trail of ants leading from the doorway to the stone rock in the wall that protruded out like a ledge under the only portion of the roof still somewhat intact. It was the spot where an old damaged basket sat that father came across discarded in a ditch and used to put what meager food he had brought back for us. I split the handful of collected scraps between us, and we ate them with our tongues licking the palms of our hands to ensure that we got each and every crumb. Then I gathered the scattered straws into one small pile in the corner, and we curled up upon the hay. Exhausted, I put my arms around Jacob and as his head collapsed on my shoulder, we slept.

Sleepy distant sounds began to awaken me, then louder noises of yelling. Rising up, I looked out the doorway at dust filtering down in the sunlight stirred up into the air by the scuffling feet of those bustling about. Many people were all talking at the same time, but a few stood like statues just staring down to where the side street met the thoroughfare. I was perplexed, and thought to myself what could be happening out there? Jacob woke up and abruptly cried out, startled by the sudden chaos. I held him tightly until he stopped crying.

Let’s go and see if we can find father, I said, feeling very uneasy about leaving, but even more uncertain of staying put. Taking his hand, we silently walked out into the street and entered the flow of the crowd. The throngs walked as a single mass out the city gate. I followed partially curious as to where they were going, but mostly intimidated by the force of the movement pressing us along with them.

On the nearby hills the reason was seen, it was just another routine execution of criminals. Is that what all the fuss is about? Well, anyway, maybe father was with the gathered men clustered in groups up on the hills. Determined to find him, I pressed between and under the adults, dragging Jacob behind me.

Stop pulling me! Jacob cried out in a loud voice as he tugged back hard on my hand. Then, hanging from it with all his weight, he whined, I’m hungry.

Looking about, I saw a market cart of fruits and vegetables overturned by the increasing number of people amassing in the street. I maneuvered us closer to it, and then pretended to trip on one of the broken wheels. Falling down along side of the cart, I grabbed a couple of figs and a cluster of grapes, and then briskly moved us off to the side of the road where we sat down.

Here. Now, eat and stop complaining, I said, handing a fig and half of the grapes to Jacob, who eagerly reached out to grab the fruit.

When we finished eating, my tired body just wanted to sit still and rest a little while longer before we would again continue our quest to find father in the large gathering. However, as more and more people jammed the roadway, filling the street that headed out of the city, I was becoming unsettled with the tension that seemed to fence in each individual with his own protective shield from the rising emotions organizing the crowd into a mob. The throng appeared to be heading to one particular stony hill that bordered the byway leading to the mountains. I was convinced our father would be out there, because in the past, he would often go to be among the multitudes that would gather at political or religious events. As we came closer to the top of the hill, the center of all their attention became clearer—it was just one group of three crosses in the long row of the many execution crosses that lined the roadway. We stopped in front of the three crosses, and then standing under the cross on my right side, I turned around to face the crowd. Scanning the unfamiliar faces looking for father, I heard a voice to my right speaking and turned to look up at the Man on the middle cross.

Lifting His head up to the sky, He pleaded, Father, forgive these people because they do not understand what they’re doing. His voice registered the strain of great pain, but when He looked back down at the crowd in front of Him, His eyes were filled with a compassionate sorrowful love, as one would look upon an injured dying loved one. I felt very sorry for this Man; He did not look like the other criminals nailed to their crosses, dying with angry distorted faces filled with bitter hatred for their executioners.

Dragging Jacob with me, I moved a little closer to this Man’s cross. In rising uneasiness, Jacob began to squeeze my hand tightly and moved closer to my side, his frail little body clinging close to the warmth of my leg for comfort. Now, I was standing just in front of the Man on the middle cross, looking directly up at Him. His slim frame had been stripped down to only a loincloth, but the most notable thing about His form, which hung so cruelly on that rough-hewed timber pole crudely made into a tall cross of a tree, was the presence of a crown of thorns placed upon His head. Their sharp points piercing deeply into His flesh were causing tiny scarlet drops of glistening blood to run down His face, intermixing with the sweat streaming in long waving lines. An inscription in three different kinds of letters was carved into a rough block of wood that had been nailed above His head, but I could not read.

A man leaning over my head looked up intently at the sign and shouted back to the group behind him, It says that this is Jesus, the King of the Jews.

So He is a King, I said to myself. As this Man’s eyes wandered over the crowd, for an instant His eyes looked down at me, and when His gaze met mine, a cold chill ran up my spine and my body shook with a tremor that shivered into my very soul. He had a power in His presence that seemed to look right through me, and then from out of nowhere, I felt guilty for stealing the fallen fruit from the seller’s overturned cart. My legs went weak as though I was going to fall down to my knees in front of Him, but the feeling abruptly left as His eyes moved away from mine. The sight of such cruelty made me want to run away, but something inside me would not allow me to leave His side. Mesmerized, I stood looking up at Him, thinking that truly this was not a common criminal for He was no ordinary man.

Behind us, I could hear the sounds of feet pounding up the hillside. I turned to see Roman soldiers marching with intimidating strides heading right for us. Just the forcefulness of their natures made me quickly move us aside, as they boldly walked up to stand below this Man’s cross. In grinning ridicule, they saluted the Man with the crown of thorns, scorning Him as they bowed deeply in mocking gestures to this King. Then, laughing and joking, one of the centurions picked up the Man Jesus’s clothing that had been cast into a heap on the ground just below His cross. Quietly, so others could not hear, he whispered low to the soldiers right next to him that he thought the garments had the appearance of the expensive royal robes of a Jewish King. Then, he picked up the white linen gown hemmed with a blue edge along with its accompanying layers and split up the raiment with the soldiers next to him. He took the gorgeous coat, seamlessly woven in an intricate pattern of scarlet and dark purple threads, over to a game of chance where a group of soldiers cast dice to see who would win that expensive vesture.

A man, stirred up by something inside him that was driving him to lash out, bolted forward out of the crowd and pointing his finger up at this Man, Jesus, in an accusatory gesture yelled, Ah, You who would destroy the temple and build it again in three days, if You are the Son of God, then, save Yourself.

Some Jewish religious leaders ornamentally adorned in immaculate garments slowly made their way up the hill, walking by the clusters of common folks as if they were contaminated. Then, standing before this Man, one of them turned to look out at those gathered about and with a haughty smug look, he panned the crowd with his arm saying, He saved others, but He can’t save Himself.

A group of elders standing just to His left were laughing at Him, and one deliberately yelled out loudly for all to hear, They say that He is King of Israel. So if He is, than let Him get Himself down from that cross, and then, we will believe Him.

A Jewish priest standing among them stepped forward to make fun of this Man, and mocking Him with a sneer said, He says He is the Son of God, so let God deliver Him, if God will have Him. His face beamed with a contented arrogant look as he snickered to himself.

All of these people seemed to be laughing in a satisfied delight at this Man’s crucifixion. What did He do to them? I could not understand the bitter words spoken out with such hatred in their voices. Even some of the thieves nailed to the crosses in the long row surrounding the Man with the crown of thorns mocked Him as the others did, but the Man called Jesus just closed His eyes and gave no answer.

As the afternoon sun stood still above the chaotic masses below, the sky began to fill rapidly with clouds and the sunlight was no longer visible, as if the day had become the dead of night. The hours moved ahead seemingly in giant steps, yet the minutes were frozen in time etched like acid on a metal plate, permanently leaving each moment in my memory. In my heart, I could hear His words echo, Father, forgive. Father, forgive. What did these words mean?

The man nailed on the cross to His left side in anguish cried out bitterly, If You are the Christ, save Yourself—and then with a hopeless sounding plea added—and us.

But the man on the cross to the right side of this Jesus, also in torment, rebuked the mocker by meekly saying, Don’t you fear God, since we are in the same condemnation? And we indeed deserve it because it is the punishment for our illegal deeds, but this Man has done nothing wrong. The stressed voice sounded vaguely familiar, but from where we were standing, I could not see his face clearly for the people clustered thick before this Jesus. The man on the right continued to speak with a relinquishment to their common plight, Lord, remember me when You come into Your Kingdom.

This Jesus tilted His head slightly to look over in his direction and said with an unquestionable assurance in His voice, Indeed, today you will be with Me in paradise. Then with much love He looked down on a sobbing old woman standing next to me, and said, Woman, behold your son, as He moved His eyes to look at the young man who held her hand on the other side. Then looking at the young man, He said, moving His gaze back to the weeping woman, Behold your mother. What a strange thing to say, again I wondered. What did He mean by all these statements?

There were Roman soldiers moving from cross to cross. One stuck a long pole with a sponge into the mouths of each man hanging on a cross, and then the one behind him would stab their sides with a spear before another following him broke their legs. The sounds of these men screaming in pain, moaning in suffering, crying in sorrow, pleading in fear, swearing in anger, or cursing in hatred filled the air with the deafening cries from all these dying souls, as the huge crowd gathered began to cheer in revenge, laugh in satisfaction, shout in victorious jubilation, weep in grief, moan in agony, or howl in loud anguished disbelief.

This Jesus was now pale, and His face was tightly squeezed in deep wrinkled lines like a dried-up fruit. As He took a long breath with wheezing air sounds, laboriously breathing in and out through His cracked lips, He faintly uttered in scratchy dryness, I thirst.

The first soldier extended the pole with the sponge up to His face. Eager for a drink, He put out His tongue but after tasting it, winced in disgust and turned His head aside, refusing to take the concoction. Someone in the crowd said it was filled with vinegar and gall, but another said that it was sour wine and hyssops or some other kind of spice.

Then Jesus looked upward again, and His body shook as He writhed in great pain. With an appalling fear in His voice, He strained to hoarsely shout out as if to reach Heaven itself, Eli, Eli… My God! My God! Why have You forsaken Me?

A man from behind me cried out, Look, He calls for Elijah. Then another man came up to again offer him the spiced hyssops, but Jesus refused, then the man yelled out loudly, making sport of Him, Now let’s see if Elijah will come and take Him off that cross!

After that, Jesus just closed His eyes and submissively whispered, Father, into Your hands I give My Spirit. Then His head fell forward, and as His chin touched His chest, He softly moaned, It is finished. At that moment, the black thick clouds that had completely darkened the sky began to churn swirling winds that suddenly became a ferocious storm, stinging the flesh like bees with sharp pricks of sand.

Then just like my mother’s cold emotionless face was empty of her presence, Jesus’s face went blank. Drained of His life’s blood, His skin turned cold white, and His life’s Spirit was no longer in that limp, dangling body. He was dead.

Another soldier came up, and taking his spear, thrust it into Jesus’s side. That’s blood and water, he said, as red-striped fluids gushed out from the gaping wound. Turning around to speak to the soldier following him, he added rather matter-of-factly, Don’t bother to break His legs. He’s dead already.

The ominous darkness suddenly filled with multiple bolts of forked white lightning that flashed across the sky and struck the rocks supporting the middle cross. The earth moved violently below our feet and we fell down. Jagged fractures opened in the dirt around us, and the screaming crowd rapidly dispersed, jumping over the cracks. In fear, the Jewish elders and priests and all those in the crowd who had mocked Him ran in any direction that would take them away from the cross of this Man Jesus. Jacob covered his ears, as many thunders cracked all at the same time. Shrieking in terror, he desperately tried to pull me away, jerking repeatedly on my arm, but still something in me did not want to move away from this Man Jesus. Covering Jacob with my arms to shelter him, I shivered in the violent wind of this sudden catastrophic storm.

The Roman centurion, who had been breaking the criminal’s legs, was leaning into the furious wind that all of a sudden came up when Jesus died, and as he stared up at Him yelled, Certainly this was a righteous Man. Then the soldier’s face tightened with a look of escalating fear, and shaking his head, he then cried out with great conviction, Truly this Man was the Son of God.

Looking back up at Jesus, my mind also came to the same conclusion that He couldn’t be just a mere mortal, for the sun, the wind, and the earth seemed to respond in intense anger to His death.

The old woman whom Jesus had spoken to in the crowd wailed in high-pitched tormented cries, rocking back and forth with her arms reaching out to His lifeless body. The young man next to her, grievously weeping loudly, tried to hold on to her. The women standing next to them fell down to their knees, crying in agonizing pain. My brother’s face was swollen and tear stained from fits of hysterical crying; but inside me, I only felt a horrific fear that seemed to freeze my body in place. As we huddled on the ground together, terrified by the massive storm that seemed to make the earth itself quake and break open when the lightning hit the rocks, Jacob buried his head in my lap. Another furious strike hit so close that it shook the hairs of my neck upright, and now fearing for our lives, I tried to pull us back, crawling away inch by inch from the revolting sight before us.

The man on the right side of this Jesus cried out in dreadful pain as a soldier shoved a spear into his side and another broke his legs. Now in a position to see this man’s face, I recognized him.

Father! I yelled out in horror. Then his head slumped down on his chest, and as his last breath of life left his body, he died before my eyes.

Awkwardly getting up, I struggled to squirm out from under the pressure of Jacob’s body, as he cried out for me to come back. I stumbled over to my father, reaching the bottom of his cross, perched so high on that rocky hill above me that my outstretched hands could barely touch the bottom of his nail pierced feet. The rain was coming down in torrents, mixing with the blood from the gaping hole in his side and running down his broken legs, the bones protruding from the skin like white knives. As his still warm blood streamed over my hands and down my body, I cried out in panic, Father, please don’t die! Please don’t leave us!

A Roman soldier yanked me away by my arms, shouting, Go home, little girl! This is no place for children.

I was in shock; my heart was breaking with unthinkable anguish. My teeth were chattering and my body shivered in the cold rain now released from the clouds above, falling in large teardrops as though Heaven itself was crying. I tried to walk down the dark road that was now awash with a river of blood, bleeding from all the men on these crosses who had died that day, but Jacob was hanging onto my leg like a stone weight. I could hardly move my leg to walk, so I just picked him up, and he hugged me around my neck, crying in heaving sobs. Heading away from the devastating scene behind us, I aimlessly walked down the hill they called Golgotha, back into the city of Jerusalem.

People ran past us in hasty flight for cover, as the rain continued to pour down in surging sheets. Gushing down the hillside, swiftly running streams of water were carving deep gouges into the road and the overlapping mudflows slimmed over everything in their path. Slipping, I fell down, I tried to walk again, but then once more my feet slid and we fell into the slimy muck. Oh, Father, we need you! I desperately cried out, Help us—help me! However, I knew he was still back on that cross, yet in a state of shocked denial of what had just happened, I kept crying out for him to come down from that cross, and come back to us. My thoughts were reeling from those anguished moments of tearful pain screaming inside me to the questions that always haunted me like nightmares. Where did father go? Where do the living go when life leaves their bodies? What was the need of this horrible thing called death that took people away from the living? Is this what the God they talk about does to punish these people or is this punishment for the living left behind because they had done something wrong? Had I done something wrong?

The streets of Jerusalem were emptying fast, as the people disappeared into buildings to hide from the fierce thunderstorm. The flashes of lightning blinded me; their instantaneous claps of thunder made Jacob scream out in