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Thomas’ Lonely Week: Friday


Knocking on the heavy wooden door. No one is answering. Martha says something about the Disciples still being in Jerusalem and now we can see her walking away, sadly looking over her shoulder.

The table is still turned over. The pillows are still in disarray. A smear of dried liquid is on the wall. On the floor, staring up at the ceiling with tired yet active eyes is Thomas.

He raises his hands to his face, turns them upwards, then turns the palms back to himself.

“These hands performed miracles.” He squints at the dirty fingernails and the calluses “These hands cast out demons and yet they have no power.”

He sits up and continues to examine his hands then touches his lips “This mouth preached the Kingdom of God to the Jews and even” he smiles “the Samaritans. These lips.

“And yet they have no knowledge on their own.”

He reaches down to his feet, rubs the calluses and shakes his head “These feet walked about, preaching His Gospel and yet they have no reason to walk about if not for that Gospel.

Thomas’ head shoots up “We did all this because He was the one who told us to. We had no power, He gave it to us. We had no message, it was His words. We had no hope, it was all in Him.”

He smiles.

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Thomas’ Lonely Week: 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.

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Thomas’ Lonely Week: Monday


Thomas is standing at the window, a rooster crowing in the nearby distance. The sky still has the final purple remnants of night that it stubbornly clings to in the face of the overpowering dawn. A cup of goats milk sits forgotten on the table. A basin of water sits unused by the door.

Clean trails run down his upper cheeks. His eyes are red, bleary, exhausted.

His eye catches Martha carrying water back to the main house. She can’t see him; she’s focused on her task.

He tries to suppress a yawn while whispering “…but Lazarus…”. He yawns again, shakes his head, lowers his eyes.