I had longed for some time to take Alex and Rufus, my boys, to Jerusalem for the Passover. The holy city was something that Sophia and I told them about since they were small. In our homeland, we were in a minority as Jews surrounded by people who worshipped many different gods, and it was a melting pot of different cultures. I yearned to go to the city of David and experience worship in the Temple. sacrifices had been offered for me before of course, but through other pilgrims, but to be there and do it myself would be out of this world. My only regret was the Sophia was not with us any longer to see it.

Jerusalem was all that I expected and more. There were pilgrims from throughout the world. It was a cultural meeting pot of Jews from many and diverse places. All of us here to celebrate the festival of liberation. Rufus and Alexander loved to sit in the Temple and were intrigued by a teacher from Nazareth. He did teach well, although the elders clearly did not like him and wanted to trip him up. Alexander leaned that people had cheered him into the city as David’s son. I was cautious about him because of that. Many had many such claims and it did not end well for our people. Yet, in his dealings with people, he was resolute and kind.

Towards the end of the week, I heard that he had been arrested, and I knew there would be trouble. I wanted to get the boys out of the city, and yet found myself in a crowd of people who seemed to be gathering to witness an execution. As I was looking for a way to get out quickly, I was grabbed my two soldiers. ‘Boy; carry the cross’. I looked at the Nazaerene who returned by gaze with empathy. I did as I was told. The romans struck me for being hesitant, I was looking for my boys. They were being looked after by the women following the condemned man. I kept going surrounded by a cauldron of noise, many of who simply their to see the spectacle of death. I could see the place of execution and my spirits sank at the enormity of it all. The cross was removed from me, and I was manhandled away, as the Nazarene was stripped and placed on the tree. I found my boys and mouthed a word of thanks. I wanted to run, but my boys stood for a little longer as the young teacher prayed God’s forgiveness on those who were killing him. That was unexpected. Come boys, I said as we left the city. It turned dark as we left. The man was clearly something different. I now know him to be the Messiah. My boys lead churches in Cyrene, and often tell of the time when their dad carried the throne of David’s son.