I became a follower of Jesus sometime after Pentecost. I wasn’t in Jerusalem at the time. I hear I missed quite a show. Joppa is a little too far away. Plus, there are a few people here who need me, I couldn’t just leave them. When a few of my friends (who had made the journey) returned, they shared the most curious news with me. God had raised this man Jesus to life, from the grave, the first resurrection. He is Lord. Caesar is not. Now, I am his disciple. You could say everything has changed for me, but honestly, I still feel kind of the same.

You see, I’m a widow. And some things don’t change when you’re a widow. Fortunately, I can sew, well enough to provide for myself, which isn’t the case for most widows. I had this idea a few years ago. I decided to take as many widows into my house as I could. I’m no Scripture scholar. To be honest, I’m a bit ashamed of what little I understand. But one thing I keep seeing – my people are supposed to take care of poor people. And widows are poor. That part I get. So I invited them over, not for dinner, for good.

We have a wonderful time together. Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot of work to do and we still bear this incredible burden of grief, but at least we get to bear it together. It’s so much better that way. I hated being alone. So did they; what a surprise, right? People are still pretty cruel to us though. We have no dignity in their eyes, we get no respect. Early on I just made the widows whatever clothes I knew how to make – nothing fancy, you know, durable and functional. Then I had another idea. Dignified people would not wear the clothes I was making, so I learned how to make something else, robes. They take a while and the material is expensive, but the thought of honoring my friends became irresistible. Now, each one of us has a robe to wear out in public. They come in real handy when bargaining at the market.

As far as I can remember (and this is where my story gets a little hazy), right around the time I finished making the last robe, my robe, I fell dreadfully sick. Next thing I know, I am sitting up in bed, this strange looking fellow is there beside me, my hand is in his hand, and we’re alone. You can only imagine the thoughts I was having. Then, as I start to stand up – he helped me to my feet – I see, out of the corner of my eye, the widows, filing into the room, looking all shocked and weird, like they’d seen a ghost or something, or perhaps the fallout of an incredibly scandalous night. I was so scared! “Is she really alive?” one of them asked. What? I thought, less scared, even more troubled. That’s when I noticed the strange man nodding his head, confirming something I could only begin to contemplate. I died? I’m alive? The man I woke up beside, the one with the rough hands, is an apostle?

My friends wouldn’t shut up. They told everybody in town. I told them they were making this story way too big a deal. But, before I knew it, all kinds of people in the city started believing in Jesus. It was so confusing. What was happening? That’s when Peter, the apostle in my bedroom, told me something I’ll never forget. He told me the widows were weeping all over themselves when he found them, and that this had confirmed a suspicion he had been having, and the suspicion he had been having was this: the reflection of a disciple’s life is seen in the faces of those who have absolutely no idea what they’re going to do without them when they’re gone. As he waved good-bye to go wherever it was he was headed to next, he walked over to me and whispered in my ear, “insignificant things are very significant.” And like I said, I’ll never forget that. I’ve got to run now, the widows are calling.