What if you had been a child while Jesus walked the earth, hearing of His miracles and His arrival in your hometown, wanting so desperately to see Him, only to overhear within the week that He’d been crucified?

What if you heard, “He’s alive!” three days later? Would you find a way to meet Him face-to-face?

I held my brother’s hand as we pushed through the crowd. Neither of us said a word. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway—the shouting was too loud.

The air was thick and stale as people pressed against us. My feet were covered in dirt, and my veil stuck to my skin. Someone elbowed me in the shoulder. The shouting grew louder as we edged closer to the road.

“Hosanna to the Son of David!”

I stood on my tippy toes. There He was. Jesus. The One everybody was talking about. He’d healed an unclean woman who’d been bleeding longer than I’d been alive. He’d fed thousands of people with a boy’s lunch. Jesus cared about the poor, those like us. He was close now. I could see Him riding on a colt. He faced the other direction. I wanted Him to look at me, to see me. Some stretched out their cloaks in the dust, others laid palm branches on the road. My brother, who was older and much taller, stretched his neck while I peeked through any opening I could in the crowd.

Someone bumped into me and stepped on my foot. I tried to steady myself. I wanted to see more of Jesus, but my brother pulled me back.

“We have to go.”

It was late, but I wanted to stay. I wanted to see Jesus’ face. But instead, we hurried away from the crowd, away from Jesus. My tears dried on my cheeks before my mother could see them.

Days passed, and I still hadn’t seen Jesus. I was with the goats when my brother ran past me wide-eyed and breathless into the house. I followed him inside.

“They’re crucifying Him!” he shouted.

Mother stopped weaving and lowered her head.

I lowered mine, too.

I didn’t get to see Him. He never looked at me.

I had to try. Quickly, I climbed to the roof. There in the distance, Golgotha. A crowd had gathered near two standing crosses. I held my breath as another went up. I dropped to my knees. Jesus, the One who loved all of the sick ones and the lonely widows, was on one of those crosses. I didn’t know which one. Mother’s sobs came from inside the house. My body trembled as I cried, too. I leaned over on my side, facing the crosses, and cried until I fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was dark. I couldn’t see the crosses.

What time is it? Why didn’t mother come for me?

Suddenly, the earth shook and rumbled. Things clattered inside the house and all around. I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. It was dark, and I was afraid I’d fall. Finally, my mother came for me, took my hand, and helped me inside. She didn’t say a word. I think her heart was broken like mine.

A few days later, I’d been asleep when my brother bumped into Mother’s loom.

“A woman saw Jesus,” he whispered to my mother. “She said He’s alive.”

I didn’t move, pretending to be asleep.

“Where?” Mother asked.

“At his tomb.”

They both left. Quickly, I got dressed and ran after them, staying far enough away so they couldn’t see me. I knew they’d send me home if they spotted me, but I wanted to see Jesus—the One who raised people from the dead. My heart pounded, not because I hurried to the tombs but because Jesus was alive, and my legs tingled at the thought of seeing Him.

People were coming and going from the tombs. I knew Mother would have forbidden me from going there, so I stayed back, hoping to get a glimpse of Jesus and a crowd following Him. But there was no crowd. Not this time. My mother and brother had already arrived at the tombs and were coming back. I turned and raced home before they noticed me.

I kept busy the rest of the day, tending to the goats and helping Mother with her weaving. We overheard exciting stories outside our door, like discovering jewels shining in the dust — the temple curtain had torn in two when Jesus died, and two angels in white had appeared in Jesus’ empty tomb. And now, a woman had claimed He was alive. She’d seen Him. A woman—someone like me. I wanted to see Him too. I had to find a way.

Days passed, and I still hadn’t seen Him. I’d heard more stories—other tombs had opened, and many were raised to life; some even claimed to have seen them. I hadn’t seen them or Jesus, but I spotted some of His followers walking by our house. I left the goats and followed them, grabbing the pitcher for water in case anyone wondered. I stayed back, hoping no one would notice me. They entered a house, so I crouched underneath the window and listened.

The men whispered—I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Suddenly, there was a loud gasp, and then everything turned quiet. I held my breath as I tried to listen. My heart pounded in my ears. There was another voice—a gentle voice.

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

I haven’t seen Jesus, but I believe. I believe He is the Messiah, the Son of God.

Suddenly, a hand touched my shoulder. I hadn’t heard the door open, so I jumped, thinking I was in trouble for being there.

I didn’t recognize Him at first, but when He smiled, I knew.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

His eyes, bright like sunlight reflecting on water, seemed to take hold of me.

I couldn’t stop myself. I threw myself into Him and wrapped my arms around Him. I felt something on His side, a wound of some kind, so I tried to hug him gently.

Just then, He laughed and pulled me in tighter. It was the best hug I’d ever gotten, and His laugh was the best I’d ever heard.

I knew in my heart I would hear His laugh in my dreams and see His face every night when I’d close my eyes—like closing my eyes and still seeing the sunlight dancing on the water.

Jesus didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. I saw it all in His eyes when He let go of me. It didn’t matter that I was poor or smelled like the goats. It didn’t matter that I was a girl or the smallest in our family. Jesus loved me. And I finally got to show Him that I love Him too.

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