He ducks down a side alley, it’s not the first time he’s done that today. Nowadays he takes the long way to wherever he is going. He’s getting to know the back streets like the back of his hand. He’s discovered a few short cuts which have been useful too. It’s not so much his own fears. It’s Martha, she won’t stop instructing him, her angst bubbling over like one of her pots of stew. She can imagine a hundred ways, a thousand scenarios, in which his life is brought to an abrupt end. He’s in an odd bubble, one moment barely able to resist cracking a giant smile at the realisation that he is not dead. The next his face furrowed with the thought that he might well be bereft of life any second, a dagger protruding from the small of his back, his throat yawning open like a dark red chasm.
He could be cornered by a crowd or singled out by a lone maverick wishing to make his point, anything’s possible. But life goes on. Resurrection for him is a daily occurrence. He can only take one batch of 24 hours at a time. To stress about more achieves nothing for him. So he steps from the shadows and relives again. Walks on with hope, life, purpose in his heart and coursing through his veins. Another day to live again.
John 12 v 10