Wednesday.
Thomas is at the door, basket in hand waving at Martha who is going back to the main house. The sun is high in the noon sky.
He carries the basket back to the table and sits down, heavily sinking into the pillow around it. He takes a big whiff, smiles absentmindedly and opens up the small towel covering the food.
Bread. Fish. A skin of wine.
He stares.
He gingerly, tenderly picks up the fish, his eyes distant “…how we worked that day. Here…there…” He smiles “…how we worked.
“Over five thousand fed from…” he picks up bread, drops it “a few scant loaves and couple of measly fish. We knew He was Messiah from that and yet…and yet it was the next day…
“…at the Synagogue…about His body being bread. Then at the supper on that night–’this is my body given for you.’ Not only did He know but He planned for this very thing.
“At that time He said He’d raise us up on the last day…how could He do that if He was in Sheol where there is no knowledge of God?”
Thomas eats, brow furrowed.