I’ve never been very brave. Actually, of all my siblings, I cry the easiest and get nervous over little things. My father is a merchant and he’s always traveling, and when he’s away, I can’t stop worrying about all the bad things that could happen to him.

That’s why my family was so surprised when I told them I wanted to join the group of women following Jesus of Nazareth.

“Anna,” my mother said seriously, “are you sure? You’ve never been away from home for more than two days. Life following Jesus will be hard.”

But I’d never been so sure about anything in my life. I had just turned fifteen, and while most of my friends were married or engaged to other young Canaanites, I was not. My meeting with Jesus at Susana’s wedding had opened my eyes to something new. During the celebration, after He turned water into wine and saved my friend’s family from public shame, I went up to Him with awe and trembling. Jesus welcomed me with that gentle look of his and opened up a new horizon to me. His words gave me new dreams, and my heart leapt for joy.

“You can come with me, if you want,” He said. “But speak to your parents first.”

After thinking and praying about it, and talking to me some more, my parents gave me their blessing. It wasn’t typical for a young Jewish girl to leave home for any reason other than marriage, but I paid little attention to what people said.

Three intense years went by. We crossed the Sea of Galilee over and over again, travelling through both Jewish and pagan lands. I never imagined the difficulties we’d face, but I never once regretted following Him. We made a good-sized group: Joanna, with her dark, intelligent gaze; gentle Salome; practical Susana, full of common sense; and a few others.

I endured cold, hunger, and fatigue, but I never felt alone. Sometimes, when I missed my parents and siblings, I’d look up at the stars and imagine they were sending affectionate messages. Jesus would sit beside me and talk about his home in Nazareth, Mary, his mother, and the stories Joseph told Him as a child. Those moments were confirmations of the meaning of my life: God had chosen me to walk across our land with the Messiah.

But that Friday, before Passover, all the courage I thought I’d gained in those three years seemed to vanish. You can’t imagine what it was like to hear the crowd screaming for Jesus’ death, or to see his body torn apart by the scourging.

My legs were shaking, and I only stayed standing because Susana held my arm so tightly.

“Let’s go,” she said through tears. “We can’t leave Him alone.”

We pushed our way through the crowd that had gathered to watch Him pass, carrying the cross. A little further ahead, I saw Mary, his mother, standing with John, the youngest apostle. Where were the others? Had they all abandoned Him? Amid the fear and sorrow, I felt a wave of anger burning through me. I would stay with Him even if no one else did.

Near the city gate of Jerusalem, Susana and I managed to stop by the roadside. Beside me were Mary of Clopas and other women whose faces I barely remember, because I couldn’t tear my gaze from the procession approaching us.

First came two men with their hands tied to the wooden beams they carried. One of them was twisted in fury, screaming so terrifyingly that my skin crawled. Behind them, helped by another man, came Jesus, walking with great difficulty. His hands weren’t bound; He clung to the cross by his own will. He was breathing heavily and wincing in pain from his wounds.

When He reached us, He recognised us and looked up. He tried to smile in gratitude. That look shattered me, and without realising it, I began to sob, my whole body trembling. I couldn’t stop thinking about his smile, about the eyes that would never again shine with that otherworldly light.

Then Jesus spoke, his voice cracking.

“Daughters of Jerusalem…”

He tried to breathe, but thick drops of blood fell down his lips.

“Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me. Do not worry about me.”

I couldn’t help smiling through my tears. Jesus was the same as always, thinking of others before Himself.

“Do not weep for me,” He repeated. “Remember what you have learned: weep instead for your people, for yourselves, for your children. If they treat the green tree like this, what will happen to the dry one?”

With that, He moved on, urged forward by the cry of the soldier leading the procession.

We followed Him outside the city, which was easier now that the crowd thinned near the gates. A few of us began the climb to Golgotha behind Him.

As I walked, I couldn’t stop thinking about his words. I didn’t really understand them. He seemed to be saying that He wasn’t dying for Himself, but for our people. But how could we weep for our people, when He was the one suffering now? I shivered and looked up to the hilltop, where it would all come to a close. The end was near.

But I wouldn’t leave Him. It wasn’t my courage that kept me standing: it was the love for Him that filled my heart. That love, forged and purified over the last three years, gave me the strength to take one step, then another, and another.

The hammer blows pierced my heart, but I stayed firm, beside Jesus’ Mother and the rest of my friends, strong women who wanted to stay to the very end. With the courage of love, how could we fail to change the world?