I've been called many things: apostle, whore, lover, preacher, mad-woman, sister, follower, wife. Fact or fiction, myth or reality--judge for yourself. All that really matters is that that I once loved a healer and a teacher, God and man, a crucified and resurrected peace-maker and rabble rouser. This is my story.

Friday, April 23, 2010


I try to not be jealous. Jealousy is, after all, an ugly trait. I've seen it in my sister and I've even seen it in the disciples. I am diligent in my efforts to see God's handiwork in those around me. Joshua taught, time and time again, about the Kingdom of Heaven being within us, that he is part of us, even more so now that he is risen, and so I try to remember that too. It seems to me that jealousy has no place in a heart that is filled with that irrefutable love of God, of Joshua. And yet....

Last week Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, James and John all went to Sea of Tiberias to do some fishing. I'd gone home for a bit as well, all of us needing a break from this city, from the prying eyes of the Romans. And most of all, our fish supply and our money supply needed to be refurbished. I got back to Jerusalem first, to this house we're all sharing for the time being. The next day, they all came back, with fish, with money, and with stories of a visit from Joshua.

Peter didn't recognize him. I can not judge him for that. It's no secret that in the garden that morning, it was only when he called my name that I knew who he was. Still, Peter, his human eyes, was blinded by the vision that is Joshua. And Joshua is different now. There is no denying that. The story of their encounter is Peter's to tell, not mine, so I'll leave it to him. What I struggle with is my own envy. It has been over a week since I've seen him. And I understand that he has work to do, that others must see. Understanding is not the same as patience or peace. My head is clear. My heart--not so much. Even my dreams are foggy these days. I see him, but it's not obvious what he's saying, what he wants. My sister reminds me I was never very good a sharing. And I truly, with all of my being, believe that his words, his teachings, his miracles, his resurrection--these things must be shared. But him--the man, if he even is a man anymore, if he hasn't already become fully God--the man who I knew when he was a boy, who giggled with me over silly jokes, whose touch could calm and stir my heart all at once--that man, that Joshua, my Joshua--that I'm not so good at losing and at sharing.

And I feel guilty for my struggle.

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