Who is he?

She wishes to pick up the phone and dial to heaven. This is a line where no one puts on hold.
She is certain she won't hear,

"Hang on."
"Sorry, he's not in."
"He's busy right now."
"Wrong number."

Instead she'll hear Him as He calls out.

"What is wrong, child? I'm here if you need me. Anything?"

She lulls in shame and despair. Tears gush out in torrents. She needs not say a thing. He knows. He cares.

"I'm glad you called."

She knows she has made the right choice. She asks through her anguish, why yearn for someone or other people who loves you not? Why not be contented with only ONE person who loves you MOST?

She has met people with many excuses.
People who do not return her affections.
People who belittle her, taking her for granted.

Then she remembers the solitary carpenter from Nazareth.

She feels His veins.
She feels His heart.
Even His hands.
Holy Land seems so close.

Images. De ja vu.
The bible being a diary.
A journey.
A legacy of hope and repentance.

What if she was there during the final hours of His life on earth? Or minutes after He died so gallantly, passionately for us on the ragged old cross up that hill?

Only she did not have a name she had now. Just a passerby. Can He transport her back to then?

"The deed is done."

She sees the 3 crosses on the hill. She looks to the middle one with an aching nothing can heal. It is too late. He has breathed his last. A hand taps her shoulder. A lady in a white veil.

"He is gone."

She turns to the veiled one. "No, no, no. He will rise again, as in the scriptures."

"Hush yourself silly woman. The man is dead. King of Jews indeed," one of the guards near them ridicules her. Yet some guards only remain quiet. Perhaps they know something and believe.

"What is your name?" she asks the veiled one again.
"Mary Magdalene. And you?"

"I wish I knew," comes the forth right answer. She cannot put into words her origin. The future. Mary Magdalene puts her arm around the other lady's shoulder, kindred spirits though strangers.

"But at least we are here for the same reason."

The language is Hebrew but she has no idea how she understands. To be present is only what matters to her right now.

"Did you know He died for us?" the lady asks Mary Magdalene.

"He's the Messiah. There is no doubt about it. But the agony, the sheer pain of it all. Such love. Do we really deserve it?" Mary replies.

"I think He thinks we deserve it," the other woman professes. She states her intention to approach His cross only to be held back by the guards. 5 of them.

"Let me pass," she hoarses.

"The man is dead, I tell you. Go home. You must be one of his lunatic followers," the tallest of them speaks.

"I only want to see Him."

"Do you want to be whipped, woman?"

"Shame on you for not letting a woman visit her beloved. The only one who loves her. You, all of you knew He was innocent. Yet He had to die."

"Save your words, woman. He cannot even save himself."

She can only stare at his battered body, a sight enough to make her weak to the knees. Mary Magdalene catches up with her.

"You are very determined," she says.

"I have to. This is God in the flesh. You do believe me, don't you Mary?"Her look itself gives an answer. They march on only to turn back as they are jeered by the guards, attempting to poke them with spears.

Jolted, she returns to present times. She by the table, the phone at her hand. Was it all an illusion?

"Are you still there?" she whispers to the other end.

"Always," the familiar voice echoes.

She mouths a gracious thank you with eyes glistening tears. She has to put down the phone eventually but the fact that no lines will ever be disconnected again soothes her immensely.

The chronicles of the cross.
It saves her today.
The power of His undying love, the emblem of faithfullness.

"I love you."
And He is not just someone.

He is the Living God.
The Bloodied Cross of the World.
The Sufferer.
The Innocent Sacrificed Lamb. The Saviour.

2 more years and she would be 30 like him when He first ventured out, when He was absolutely certain of what He was commanded to do. Is there any mission for her? She awaits in anticipation.

So in her sufferings, she will not find these paths lonely again.

Inspirations from 'Six Hours, One Friday' by Max Lucado

In her late twenties.

Trapped unconsciously with a car loan, a study loan, insurance policy, internet bills, mobile bills and other high miscellanous expenses. Little things amount to a lot. Massive actually. At the end of the day, she is worn out and surprisingly broke. Surviving but mangled with worry. To top it all, she prays everyday for peace and more love in her family. Let there not be squabbles over petty issues, and important ones too. Yet they happen.

But most of all,she implores understanding from her parents and both of her siblings, and how she wants to be treated.

She does not mention these to their faces. Perhaps to a confidante or two. Or three. The few she trusts with her life. It is weary to keep so many troubles of layered piles, destroying ounces of composure deep within.

So she puts on a mask in the form of a smile. Always without fail she emerges to drift through life giving a smooth sailing impression. Rosy on the outside, but thorny all the way in.

Did you ever stop awhile to look behind that smile? Or the image she encapsulates herself in?
Do you question her strength and credibility? Even ask the burdens she carry?

Of course she tries not to tell. She hates being ridiculed. She has her pride, her need to uplift honor. So she plays a role so opposite her true self. She projects happiness to drown the sorrows. You will never get to see her bleeding heart. Or her broken soul.

But she is not down. Not beaten to a pulp. Pulling herself together, she stands against the harsh weather. Acknowledging her weaknesses, she does what she feels possible to rectify the wounds of her mistakes. Her wrong choices.

Closing her eyes, she identifies her main folly. Career. She works but she knows she has potential to do better. There are days when work is unproductive and there is little to look forward to. Recession is about to hit Malaysia. A chance of promotion seems bleak when business is not picking up. She lives in fear of a sudden "I'm sorry we no longer need your services in this company." Her world would come crashing down like millions of shattered dreams. She cannot depend on the graciousness of her Operation Director all these while. No matter how kind her superior is, or how compassionate, business talks. Her operation director needs a credible worker. Hardworking, result-oriented. She has to be that.

Badly in need of a miracle and a saving grace, she can almost drive herself mad. Yet days come and go with her being at the crossroads over and over again. Her conscience heavily embarks on guilt and self loathe on her underachievement. Comfort is one thing she never thought she can have. She forgets that she is not alone. When everyone else turns a deaf ear, or is oblivious of her plight, she has yet to approach this man.

Not her father.
Not her uncle.
Not her friend.
Or any other.

Just this man.
Once a man who died on a Cross.
No ordinary man.

Who is he?