Monday Rewrite: How?

How did you manage to eat anything that night?
We so easily call it The Last Supper, a celebration.
And yet you knew. All night you knew.
What was coming. That hit squad, those bullies.
Those thugs with their whips and clubs and snide comments.
How did you possibly force anything down?
And keep it down?
Or did you you just pick away at tiny bits of food whilst the others blithely tucked in?
Perhaps you were so distracted, caring for those friends around the table.
And their worries and concerns. Their terrible night ahead.
Nothing like as terrible as yours, but full of fear and stress all the same.
Perhaps the vision of Judas and his suicide, Peter and his weeping,
perhaps these kept you focused on making the most of that precious time.
Perhaps it was your extraordinary courage.
Your exuberant compassion that enabled you to lose yourself in that meal.
One thing I know. You were totally human.
You knew nerves and anticipation, trepidation and dread.
Did you fear that you might choose the wrong way in that garden?
Goodness knows you must have wanted to with every fibre of your being.
Walk away and have yet another supper with your friends.
Flee with them in the dark and avoid the showdown with
troops and death, sorrow, guilt and destruction.
Somehow you did it, celebrated with your friends, shared in their joy,
before enlightening them about the thunderous significance of what was to follow.
The arrest and the betrayal, the denial and the fleeing, the abuse and loss of life.
And the resurrection.
Perhaps, somehow, it was that.
The vision of a new dawn, a tomb cracked open, and Mary wide-eyed,
with her hand clasped to her mouth, laughter and disbelief etched across her features.
A new beginning.
A new uncloseable door opened. For her. For your friends.
For your enemies. For the universe.
Perhaps it was that which enabled you to break bread and drink wine with your friends.

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