A girl. Skinny. Curly hair. Almost 19 years old.
Wearing the same pyjamas she hasn’t changed in three days.
No bathing, or eating, or talking – just crying.
But it took three days for Jesus to resurrect too.

She contemplated drowning in the pond her tears had formed.
Sinking in, slowly, comfortably.
Into the mixture of confusion she would go. And rest. And live. And die.
It was her dream, and therefore, her nightmare, to disappear and dissipate.
“Cowardliness”, some would say, “Just a teenage phase.”
“Selfishness”, others mumbled, “Bold and pure”.
Those words lingered in her wounds – The cuts from not-so long ago.
She closed her eyes. Sighed. Felt death itself beside her.
Her head was pounding; her heart was weak.
She felt heavy and allowed the pressure to push her into bed.
Out of control. Numb. Breathing. In and out.

“Draw, my child. Draw.”

Pencil, rubber and paper in hands.
Thoughts of spiders, thorns and scorpions.
Knives, evil laugher, guns and scratches.
But the drawing came out to be something else:

A girl. Skinny. Curly hair. Almost 19 years old.
Falling. Bent. Eyes closed.
Maybe dead, or peaceful, or in despair.
Maybe sleeping, tired, or sick.
A hand. Two hands. They held her.
Arms so strong, yet gentle and soft.
White robe. Feeling of security.
A face of lightning. An angel!
He said, “Hush. Rest, child of God.
I am here and will not let you fall.”

So still she stayed. Paralysed.
In wonder, thankful and blessed.
“Doubt not, child of God, you are loved.
Your cry has brought me here.
You feel what Jesus felt on earth.
There is nothing new.”

And so she felt the happiest sadness –
The saddest happiness of all.



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