My hands trembled. Since yesterday, even filling a glass with water had felt impossible. Outside the house, the wind blew with an uncommon force, and the sky remained dark, covered with gray clouds threatening a storm.

I walked over to Mary, who was sitting in a chair in front of the window. She accepted the glass but didn't drink from it. Her gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

I lit a candle to try to brighten the room where we were. Where were the other apostles? I hadn't seen them since Jesus' arrest in the garden. After everything that had happened yesterday, I had brought Mary to my parents' house to rest and observe the Sabbath.

My mother entered the room silently with a blanket in her hands, which she placed over Mary's shoulders. Mary accepted it with a smile. They were true friends, and in the silence of my heart I thanked God for my parents’ presence. They had arranged everything and taken better care of Mary than I could. My mind was numb and I still felt like I was asleep.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the night, but the thunder that followed brought dark, incomprehensible images to my memory. I heard the noise of a hammer and nails, soldiers talking, and the creaking of the cross as it was raised above us.

But from Jesus… I heard nothing from him. No complaints, no pleas, just silence.

I sat beside Mary, looking, perhaps, for a bit of consolation. She was still pale, and her large eyes were dimmed by tears. One ran down her cheek now. Maybe she was reliving the events of the previous day, like me.

I didn’t keep track of the time we spent together in silent anticipation. You may wonder what we were waiting for. I know now that she kept her faith and hope in her Son alive. But my only certainty was that I should stay with Mary because Jesus had asked me too. One of the last things he had said was, “Behold your mother.”

Someone knocked on the door. I heard low voices, and then my father came and sat in front of me. “Your brother sent a message,” he said. “He and the others are at Mark's house. Everyone except Judas.”

I was suddenly explosively angry, and I said, “Let them stay there, then. They’re cowards!”

“John,” my father said, “you know very well that it’s understandable for them to be afraid…”

“Where were they,” I interrupted, “when Jesus needed them most? What good were all their promises of loyalty and dedication?”

I stood up and started pacing. All the helpless I’d felt at the foot of the Cross rose inside me.

“Why did Jesus choose them if he knew they would fail him in the end?” My voice broke. “And why did Jesus choose me if I couldn’t do anything for him, either?”

“To teach you that he loves you unconditionally.” Mary’s voice was soft, but her words made me stop in my tracks. “He chose them, not because he thought they wouldn’t fail him, but because he was confident that they would be humble enough to start again.”

She stood and walked over, then took my hands in hers. “Jesus chose you because you are John, son of Zebedee, brother of James, fisherman from Galilee. Jesus chose you for who you are. He sought you out.”

Her gentle smile made her face at once sadder and more beautiful. Her expression was like Jesus’s when he explained things to me, totally trusting that I was going to understand.

“But he died,” I said. “He let himself be killed.”

I regretted saying it immediately because a shadow of pain passed over Mary's face.

“John,” she said slowly, “my Son trusts you, and now you have to trust Him. Have you no faith?”

My mind was still clouded and I couldn’t understand what she meant, but Mary’s words ignited a small spark in me.

Outside, the storm finally broke over the city. Mary squeezed my hands and drew away to help prepare dinner. My father left the room too, very likely to send a response to my brother James’s message.

I stood still for a moment and then followed Mary. I was restless and I felt I had to do something with my hands. She put me to work, and as I set the table I turned her words over in my head. “You have to trust him,” she had said. How could I continue trusting someone who had died?

It was painful to think back on the last three years. Our happy conversations and the people’s joy every time the Lord worked a miracle seemed like direct contrasts to the suffering and death of the day before. But Mary’s words echoed within me. “Have you no faith?”

Jesus had always asked us for faith. By faith, Peter walked on water. By faith, sick people were healed. By faith, Lazarus was raised. But it was easy to have faith when things were easy and I knew what to do. Now, however, not so much.

Mary was mixing something in a bowl. Her hands were strong from so many years of working with them. She was the bravest person I knew, and the simplest, and the happiest. She was the person with the most faith.

“Woman, behold your son. Behold your Mother.” Those were the last words Jesus said to me. They were not just a request: they were also a promise that Mary’s love would not go anywhere.

That night was one of prayer, silence, and dawning hope. The next day, very early, the rain stopped, and the sun illuminated something entirely new.