Some things come out of nowhere and completely change your life. I would know: that’s what happened to me.

I was coming back from the fields with some vegetables for my family. I was walking slowly, enjoying the quiet of the road. But as I got closer to home, I ran into a huge crowd in the street. I’d never seen anything like it.

I didn’t know what they were so focused on and, to be honest, I didn’t care. I just wanted to go home and eat with my family. But the crowd was making that difficult.

People were crying, shouting in anger, throwing things… It was chaos.

I started complaining under my breath, caught up in the crowd’s bad mood.

I tried to keep walking, but with every step forward I had to take two to the side. I was being pulled deeper into the heart of the mob.

Irritation burned inside me. I couldn’t move, not even by pushing through. And I was scared, too. The crowd was way too angry. I was sure that if I touched someone, I’d end up on the ground, vegetables scattered, probably punched in the face.

“Why are they so mad?” I wondered, and then: “It doesn’t matter. I just want to get home.”

But then there was a pointed finger in my face. “You! Quickly, come here!”

“But–”

“No complaints! Move!”

The man pointing at me was a Roman officer. Next to him stood a prisoner.

Jesus.

I’d heard about Him, of course: his miracles, his teachings, the people who followed Him. They said He claimed to be the Messiah. And here He was in front of me, condemned and beaten.

I had no choice. They grabbed my basket and shoved me toward Him.

I froze.

He was totally wrecked; his skin torn to shreds, his face unrecognisable. And there He stood, bearing the weight of a massive cross and the hatred of the crowd. He tried to lift the cross again.

When I saw Him, I felt sad… and also helpless. I’d heard such incredible things about Him – his miracles, kindness, and compassion – and all I could do now was help Him with the cross. But that was enough.

I stepped forward, helped Him up, and we continued the path together.

I tried to carry all the weight of the cross, but He didn’t let me. I could see the determination in his face: He wanted to carry it to the end, to feel that pain completely. And all for the very people who were tearing Him apart with their words.

He looked at them all, and not with hatred, but with love. It was a forgiving love, even when He was suffering, like He knew that they didn’t really understand what they were doing.

That’s when I realised.

That cross wasn’t just wood. It was heavy because of what it represented: our sins, our failings, our brokenness. And I was part of that weight too.

But I live with the certainty that God forgave me. Jesus carried that cross all the way to Calvary for me, to give me another chance.

I’m glad I could help Him with the cross, and not just that day, but throughout my whole life: fighting laziness, facing my own weaknesses…

And following Him.