egscott14
All my memories are of Jesus, from when I was eleven, to three years later when he was crucified. I was fourteen when he died. I followed him from the beginning of his mission until the very end. Of course, he did come back to life; he resurrected himself, proving that he was the son of God.
I've been an orphan for as long as I can remember; I don't even know what happened to my parents. Maybe, they abandoned me, or they got killed somehow. The times I live in are rough, brutal, with no mercy whatsoever, for anyone. The Romans especially are brutal; they have no mercy or a soul in them. They really scare me, but I have to be brave because there's no one else to be brave for me.
I scrape by a lot of the times, but when I started following Jesus around, I was always full and happy. I was full not just in the stomach, but in the spirit. He always had a sparkle in his eyes, a sparkle you couldn't help to admire and look at. Every time he looked at me, I swelled full with happiness and self worth. I followed him every step of his journey; in a way, I walked in his shoes. I walked in his footsteps, experiencing what he experienced. But, of course, Jesus had a different perspective on a lot of things. When I saw disgust, he saw beauty. When I saw that someone was broken beyond repair, he saw something that could be healed by love. He always saw the positive, and now because of that, I try to, too.