Reports From the Nursery (Part Seventeen)

By Alexis, In Her Own Words

(A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: We’re going to try something a little different this time. As my Faithful Readers may remember, my actual memories of my pre-birth time in heaven have started fading as I grow into my life as a human little girl.

            Oddly, though, those memories are still pretty, clear when I dream. That’s a relief, though I worry when I’ll lose that ability too.

            I happen to be dreaming right now. I went down for my afternoon nap a half-hour ago —not by choice: I just couldn’t stay awake— and I can only hope I remember all this when I wake up. We’ll see.

            Anyway, I’m back in Heaven right now, and sitting in what seems to be a cheery little café. Outside, men pass the open window leading camels, and an armor-clad figure canters by on a war horse, a gladius swinging at his waist.

            I’m with a boy I’ve seen around the Celestial Kingdom at times. He’s about 11 years old, has a slightly cynical smile, and once tried to sell me a fig— which sounds weird because there’s no money up here. He says it’s just an old habit he can’t quite break.

            But he tells a heck of a story I thought all of you should hear. With that, I turn the narrative over to my new friend, Simon of Bethany.)

•.  •.  •

            You have heard the story. You have sung the hymns. You have eaten chocolate bunnies and painted eggs. But I was there. That’s right. I, Simon of Bethany, fig merchant by trade, entrepreneur by lifestyle, and accidental participant in one of the most unbelievable weekends Jerusalem has ever seen.

            Okay, I’m only eleven years of age— but I’ve been around, right? I didn’t just fall out of a fig tree —well, I did a few days ago, but that’s not what I mean. See, selling figs to strangers means you need to be kind of a skeptic about people. I learned this early, when I foolishly accepted a wooden shekel as payment for a fig parfait. Oh, I learned a lot, particularly when I gave the day’s receipts to my Abba.

            Let me set the scene: Passover season, somewhere around 30-ish A.D. The city is busier than usual. Every inn, stable, and hay bale is booked. The air smells like lamb, desperation, and someone who forgot to wash their feet (which, spoiler alert, was everyone). I’m just trying to sell my figs and avoid getting trampled by donkeys when I hear a ruckus coming down the Mount of Olives.

            It’s Jesus.

            Now, I knew Jesus. Not, as if, I personally knew him. We didn’t grow up together or anything. I’ve even showed up at a couple of his prayer meetings, since a good fig merchant goes where the customers are.

            Anyway, today he’s coming into town riding a donkey, which was not the bold power move I thought a Messiah would choose, but hey, who am I to judge? People are throwing cloaks on the ground, waving palm branches, and yelling “Hosanna!” which is Aramaic for “Save us!” or “Yay, team!” depending on your tone of voice. Either translation works here, because I’m hearing both. I’m standing there with my figs like, “Should I be chanting too?”

            By Thursday, things start getting interesting.

            I hear whispers that Jesus had a very intense dinner with the Apostles. Bread was broken. Wine was poured. Someone dipped when he shouldn’t have dipped. Classic betrayal foreshadowing. Judas Iscariot leaves early, looking shifty.

            Next thing you know, Jesus is arrested in a garden because his followers couldn’t’ stay awake for one prayer session. The one called Simon, or Peter, cuts off one man’s ear. But when Jesus stuck the ear back on the wounded man’s head, it was like none of the Apostles knew what they were supposed to do next. So instead, they ran away. Jesus was arrested and frog-marched off to who knows where.

            And then it was Friday. Oi vey— that’s when things get real. As in “really bad.”

            Jesus was dragged in front of the Governor, Pontius Pilate, a Roman shlub who has all the gravitas of a substitute teacher on his first day. Pilate’s like, “This guy? Really? What are you saying He did wrong?”

            Then Pilate tries to posture up some swagger: he washes his hands of the whole affair—literally, in a bowl, with water. Great hygiene, questionable leadership. But the crowd—by now, whipped into a frenzy by Scribes and Pharisees mingling throughout the throng—wants blood. “Crucify him!” they yell. Peer pressure is real, people; never doubt that.

            And ultimately, Pilate read the room, and the death march commenced.

            Now, I was not planning on witnessing a crucifixion that day; I had figs to sell and generally speaking, public executions are bad for business. But curiosity got the better of me. And there Jesus was—dragging a cross through the streets.

            In the end, they crucified him at a place called Golgotha, which sounds exotic but literally means “Place of the Skull.”

            I watched from a distance, as Jesus was nailed up between two thieves—one bitter at his fate, the other surprisingly philosophical for someone with nails through his wrists.

            After an agonizingly long time on the death-cross, Jesus looked skyward and muttered something in Aramaic— and I saw him slump down into himself. Somewhere near the foot of the cross, a woman screamed with an anguish that curdled my soul.

            Jesus died at the same instant the 3 p.m. trumpet echoed from the city walls. It grew dark. Not cloudy; I mean, it was like someone switched off the sun. Then, boom! An earthquake staggered all of us.  Later, I heard that the big veil in the temple sanctuary ripped right down the middle. Somebody else said that the tombes opened.

            I found my way home and shut the door, tight. Man, I was shaking like a fig tree in a hurricane!

            The next day was the Sabbath. Everything shut down, and even thinking about selling a fig would get you stoned. I sat at home, tempted by my own inventory, wondering what I had seen. My neighbor Mordecai, who once claimed to see the face of Elijah in a flatbread, leaned in my window and muttered that it was the end of time. I don’t know. At the time, it seemed plausible.

            But without doubt, something big had gone down. I slept badly that night.

            And then it was Sunday.

            I woke up to noise. Not your usual “Roman soldiers are stealing my chickens!” -kind of lament. It was an exciting noise. Outside, the word on the street: Jesus’ tomb was empty!

            I’m a pragmatist. Naturally, I thought about grave robbery. Classic. But then someone said angels were involved. And that some women—people called them “the Mary’s,” one middle aged and the other younger—had seen Jesus… alive.

            I ran to the tomb (well, walked briskly; a diet of figs is not conducive to athleticism) and sure enough, the big stone plug had been rolled away. Linen wraps littered the cave floor —there was an interesting pattern on the larger shroud, but somebody snatched it up before I could look closer. 

            But I digress. Point is, there was NO body.  More revealing, two Roman soldiers —the tomb guards, I’m sure— were shook bad. They looked like they had seen a ghost.

            Or— and this is just my theory, so bear with me— possibly a very alive rabbi.

            Over the next few days, rumors spread faster than a Galilean wildfire. Jesus appeared to his disciples. Walked through walls. Cooked breakfast on the beach. (Fish, not figs, unfortunately.) At one point, he was seen by hundreds of people at once, which is either a miracle or the biggest group hallucination since everyone swore the Red Sea actually parted.

            And then—just as things were getting good—he floated away. Like, ascended into Heaven. I did not see it myself because I was helping a customer select a packet of fig jelly, but I trust the source. Doubting Thomas saw it. And if he believed it, it probably happened.

            So, what did all this mean?

            Well, for me it meant a short-term dip in fig sales; a lot of folks were fasting and praying.  For some reason, though, egg sales soared. I thought about diversifying, but not seriously: you don’t have to feed fig trees, you know? Same with breeding rabbits, which also had a spike in popularity about that time.

            I guess I missed the boat on the egg-and-rabbit craze; it’s still big business on what logic would call Resurrection Day. Easter (as they’re now calling it) became the celebration.

            Personally, I don’t get the connection. “Jesus is risen—let’s hide an egg!” What? No one in Judea was dyeing eggs bright colors. And rabbits? Weren’t even in the original narrative. Maybe it's a metaphor, or maybe people just really like bunnies.

            But yeah, I get it. People need reminders. Visuals. Celebrations. It’s how we mark time and meaning. And let’s be honest, compared to some other holidays, Easter has a range. You have got tragedy, drama, miracles, redemption, breakfast food, and even a little light cosplay with the robes and sandals. I hear some remote villages even reenact the event, nail-driving and all.

            And the message stuck. Love over hate. Life over death. Forgiveness over revenge. I mean, Jesus came back from the dead and did not smite anyone. If I were him, I’d have at least sent Judas a bad case of the pox. But not Jesus. He’s out here still forgiving and healing and probably whipping up bread-and-fish’s breakfasts —for disciples and betrayers alike.

            So anyway, that was my first Easter. I saw the palm fronds, the cross, and the tomb. I saw sorrow and joy. I saw people go from despair to dancing in about three days.

            And I have lived long enough to see that story ripple across the centuries, turning the world upside-down in sandals and grace. Up here, that’s why I chose to stay an 11-year-old; it was the seminal event of my earthly life, you see.

            So, if you ever find yourself sitting in church on Easter Sunday, or munching a chocolate bunny and wondering what it’s all about, remember my figs.

            No, I’m kidding. Rather, remember that Easter is not just about what happened then. It’s about what keeps happening now. Every time someone chooses to hope over despair. Every time someone forgives. Every time someone hides an egg for a kid just to see them smile. That’s Résurrection and more than a bit of love too, right?

            I’ve got to go. I’m still in the fig business, even up Here. I just got in a fresh shipment for delivery to a guy named Paul. Some kind of writer, snacks on them when he works. He says he’s been writing a lot of letters lately.

            Between you and me, it seems like he’s starting something big.

- -

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Alexis will be back soon for further reports. In fact, she’s starting to stir now; who knows what she’ll remember, eh?)