I’ll never forget the days Jesus spent at our house just before his death. We were always glad to see him, but that week he seemed to need our welcome more than ever. My brother and sister and I had known him for a long time. He and Lazarus went to school together, and his parents were like our second family.

Bethany is a small village 3 kilometers from Jerusalem. The week before his arrest, Jesus spent the first part of every day preaching in Jerusalem and the afternoons and evenings with us. I’d be lying if I said that we suspected what was about to happen. Jesus was a bit quieter than usual, but he smiled just like always and praised the fresh-baked bread when I served dinner.

I didn’t realize that anything was wrong until my sister Mary asked if I knew why Jesus was sad. The question unnerved me, but I tried to downplay it, especially seeing the fear in Mary’s eyes.

“I don’t think it’s anything serious,” I told her. “He must be tired.”

But I started paying more attention, and I saw something off in Jesus’s gaze. He was serene but his eyes didn’t sparkle like normal. He moved slowly, seeming worn out. The apostles were restless. Peter was more than usually impatient, John was silent through long conversations, and Andrew kept checking the windows.

Eventually the suspense became too much for me and I asked Lazarus to tell me what was going on. “The Pharisees are upset with the Master,” he said. That wasn’t news. They’d been upset with his preaching for a long time.

“His entry into Jerusalem last Sunday was the last straw,” Lazarus explained. “They didn’t like the crowds cheering and calling ‘Hosanna to the Son of David.’”

“But he’s the Messiah,” I said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Lazarus just looked at me. I realized that he was scared too.

Finally he said, “I don’t know, Martha. Envious people can do a lot of harm.”

His words were like a punch to the gut, but I shook them off. I didn’t want to believe that anything bad could happen to Jesus.

But I was worried and distracted, and that afternoon I burned the bread I was baking for Jesus and the others. I was just putting a new loaf in when Jesus came into the kitchen.

“Martha? Are you alright? Your bread never burns.”

I didn’t want to burden him. “I made a silly mistake,” I said without turning around.

“Please tell me what’s wrong.”

When I met his eyes I couldn’t help the tears that came to mine. “Why won’t you flee Jerusalem? Don’t you care what happens to you? Don’t you know how angry the Pharisees are?”

I put a hand over my eyes, trying to cover my tears. Jesus said my name the way only he could, gently. “You have a big heart and you worry about many things,” he said. “But don’t you see that I must fulfill my Father’s will?”

“Why would God want something bad to happen to you?”

“God never desires evil,” he said, “but there is no real love without sacrifice and suffering. There is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends.”

I uncovered my face and saw that his eyes were glassy, like he too was fighting tears.

The others came in shortly after and everyone settled at the table. I bustled around serving them and trying not to cry. I couldn’t understand what Jesus meant about laying down his life.”

I didn’t even notice that Mary was missing until she came in with a small bottle in her hands. Her eyes were red and her face was serious. Before anyone could react, she knelt and broke the bottle over Jesus’s feet.

The aroma of perfume filled the room. Everyone was quiet as Mary wiped Jesus’s feet, tears streaming down her face.

Judas scoffed, “Was it necessary to use all that? Why not sell that perfume and give the money to the poor? We could have gotten 300 denarii for it.”

Something sparked in Jesus’s eyes, and he said, “Let her alone. She was saving it for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me. And I assure you that wherever the Gospel is proclaimed, her good deed will be remembered."

His voice shook me out of my shock. I helped Mary to her feet and led her to another room. She was still crying, telling me that she had to do it, that they were going to take Jesus away and kill him. I hugged her. For the first time in my life I didn’t know what to say. Silently, I promised myself that I wouldn’t leave Jesus, no matter what it cost me. I understood what he had told me: there is no love without sacrifice, no real love without suffering.