I’ve always followed the rules. You may be thinking, “What a boring young woman!” and perhaps I am, a little. I never had any trouble behaving well as a child. My greatest challenge was always getting distracted. That must be why I could rarely help my mother in the kitchen. I burned dishes more often than I can remember. But I love telling stories to the other children and sitting with Simon, an elderly blind man who lived near my father’s fabric shop in Jerusalem.

I was with Simon that unforgettable Friday. It was midmorning and the heat was stifling. My father had asked me to carry some fabric to a house just outside the city, and Simon was walking with me. I was telling him a story I’d invented a few days before and he was laughing heartily.

Then we heard the noise of a crowd. “What’s that?” Simon asked. “Can you see them?”

“It’s a few streets ahead,” I said. “I think there are Roman soldiers.”

“Ah,” Simon said. “It must be some poor man they’re going to crucify.”

We soon found that he was right. Three condemned men were walking along one of the largest streets, surrounded by a small retinue of soldiers and a crowd shouting loudly. Crucifixions weren’t rare events in Jerusalem, sadly, but it was a cruel punishment reserved for the worst thieves and murderers. I was struck by the size of the crowd, as was Simon. He asked if I could see the condemned men. The retinue hadn’t reached us yet, so I asked a man beside us who they were.

“Don’t you know?” he asked. “It's Jesus of Nazareth. Some say he performs miracles, and others that he’s a prophet. If you ask me, I think he's possessed."

I was stunned. “Are you sure?”

He scoffed at me. “I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be? Now leave me alone.” And he walked away.

Simon put a hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong? Do you know the Nazarene?”

I nodded. I had heard him preach at different times and I’d told Simon about him before. I thought he would be able to heal my blind friend’s eyes. I explained.

“But didn’t you just see him in Bethany?” Simon asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He’s a friend of Martha and Mary.”

I couldn’t think straight. How could they crucify Jesus of Nazareth? It had to be a mistake. I could nearly picture his kind eyes and ever-present smile in my mind. I needed to get closer. I needed to see him.

Simon kept a hand on my shoulder as we squeezed through the crowd. Though the sun still burned down on us, I was chilled. A group of women nearby was sobbing.

The clamor of the crowd grew louder, and at last I could see the first of the three condemned men. His face was disfigured by anger, and he cursed the soldiers, who were laughing. Behind him, the second man carried his cross in silence, his eyes firmly fixed on the ground. He was crying. Then there was Jesus.

I felt as if I’d been struck. I broke down, sobbing as I looked at him. No part of him was unharmed. Both of his eyes were bruised and his nose was broken. Thick drops of blood trickled from his forehead, the result of the thorns crowning his head. His tunic was soaked in blood and torn at the bottom. He had probably fallen several times already. He clung to the cross with both arms, and beside him, another man helped him carry it.

I felt a great desire to help him, like that man, but approaching a prisoner condemned to death was forbidden. I couldn’t know how the soldiers would react. I grappled with the issue. Should I go to him? Should I stay where I was? In truth, I was afraid. If I approached, people would think I was possessed or crazy.

The moment seemed eternal. The retinue stopped because the second prisoner had fallen, and Jesus looked at me. I met his eyes and saw some of the indefinable kindness I’d always associated with him. It was as if my presence was a comfort to him in his suffering.

If I went to him, they might criticize or punish me. If I didn’t, nothing would happen. And that was the problem.

I rushed forward. Hardly knowing what I was doing, I took one of the cloths in my arms and wiped his face. I was careful not to hurt him. I could feel his broken skin and the sweat and blood soaking his forehead under my fingers. I focused on his eyes, trying to clear them so he could see a little better. I only had a few seconds before the soldiers tugged me away and the retinue kept moving.

I was motionless for several long seconds. When I finally shook myself out of my trance, Jesus was nearly a block away. Simon was in a corner, where he’d been pushed by the crowd. He looked afraid and I walked toward him.

“I’m here, Simon,” I said.

He took a breath. “Veronica, I thought I’d lost you! I was afraid you’d done something wild and one of the soldiers had struck you.”

“I did very little,” I said. “I tried to clean his eyes a little, but it was no use. I barely had any time. The soldier reacted so quickly.” There was a lump in my throat, and I was sure I was going to start crying again.

“You did everything you could,” Simon said. “You approached a condemned man and wiped his face with one of your father's new fabrics. He was passing by and you didn’t just let him go: you went to him.”

I looked at my friend. “I want to walk with him,” I said. “I was able to help him a little, but I want to stay with him until the end.”

The old man nodded. “Very well, Veronica. We’ll accompany him together.”

It’s been a long time since that day, but I’ll never forget Jesus’s face speaking to his mother from the Cross, calling out that he was thirsty, or talking to the second condemned man.

The day I had the courage to walk with him, he gave me an incredible gift: the image of his face, imprinted on my father’s new fabric and engraved forever on my soul. If you decide to walk with him until the end, I am sure he’ll do the same for you.