They took Him.

Not just arrested—dragged. Like some criminal, some liar, some fake. And I stood there, paralyzed. My feet wanted to follow, my fists wanted to fight, but my heart… my heart was already splitting.

I had promised Him. Hours earlier. I’ll die with You if I have to, I said. Loud. Bold. Like a fool.

But now I was hiding in the dark, pulling my cloak tighter, sneaking into the courtyard just close enough to see what they’d do to Him. I thought maybe—maybe I could help. Or at least be there. Until a girl—barely a servant—looked at me too long.

“You were with Him,” she said.

My throat closed.

I heard my own voice say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

First lie.

Then another man joined in. “I saw you. You’re one of them.”

“No,” I said again, sharper this time, angrier than I meant. “I swear, I don’t know Him.”

Second lie.

I started walking away. Fast. I just needed to get out. The cold burned more than the fire would’ve.

And then a third one—someone I didn’t even recognize—said it again: “You’re Galilean. Your accent gives you away.”

This time, I snapped.

I cursed. I yelled. I swore on everything I had left. “I. Don’t. Know. Him.”

Then the rooster crowed.

And I remembered His eyes—He told me this would happen.

I turned just in time to see Him, beaten, bloody, but somehow… looking right at me.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked heartbroken.

I fell to my knees right there in the dirt and tried not to scream.

The night swallowed me. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t look at Him again. I ran. Like a coward, like the traitor I had just become. Every step I took away from that place felt heavier than the last.

I ended up at the edge of the city, behind an old olive tree, gasping for breath. My hands were shaking. My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out everything else.

I’d rather have been crucified than feel what I felt right then.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, curled up in shame, trying to disappear. The sun started to rise, but it didn’t feel like morning. It felt like something sacred had been lost, like the world had just tipped off its axis.

By midday, word was spreading fast—He was being tried. No one expected it to be fair. We all knew how this would go. I wanted to go back, to scream the truth, to say, “I lied! I know Him! He is who He said He is!”

But I didn’t move.

Because I was afraid they’d drag me next. Because I was afraid it was already too late.

I found Saul that night. Not that Saul—this was Saul of Cyrene, a man I barely knew, but I knew he followed Him too. He had blood on his hands, not his own. “They made me carry the cross,” he said, barely breathing.

I thought I’d fall apart.

Then came the worst moment of my life.

He was gone.

Crucified. Between two thieves. Naked. Mocked. Left to die like a criminal.

And I—I, who swore to die beside Him—I had denied Him. Lied about Him. Abandoned Him.

I didn’t go to the tomb. I couldn’t.

Three days passed in a haze. The others gathered, but no one said much. I saw Miriam once—her face pale, her hands trembling—but she couldn’t even look at me. And honestly? I didn’t blame her.

I didn’t deserve to be in that room. Every time someone mentioned His name, I felt like crawling out of my skin.

Then Mary—Magdalene—ran in on the morning of the third day, shouting like a madwoman.

“He’s not there!” she yelled. “I swear, I saw Him! He’s alive!”

Alive?

I jumped to my feet so fast I knocked over a stool. John and I ran like children, desperate and breathless. The tomb was empty. The cloths were there, folded.

But no body.

John stood there, wide-eyed. Silent.

But I? I broke down again.

Because if He was alive—if somehow, by some miracle, He’d come back—I knew I’d have to face Him. And I didn’t think I could.

But He came to us anyway.

Not with anger. Not with shame.

With peace.

“Peace be with you,” He said the first time we saw Him again. His voice was the same. Gentle. Steady. Like the wind that touches your skin without making a sound.

I couldn’t look Him in the eye.

I waited for Him to call me out. To say what I’d done. To remind everyone that I, the one who claimed to love Him most, had failed Him when it counted.

But He didn’t.

Not at first.

Not until we were alone.

It was on the shore, days later. A fire. Some fish. Quiet waves. Just the two of us.

He looked at me, really looked. And I held my breath.

“Do you love Me?” He asked.

It wrecked me.

He didn’t say, “Why did you betray Me?” or “Why did you lie?”

He just asked if I still loved Him.

“Lord,” I said, my voice cracking, “You know I do.”

He asked again.

And again.

Three times.

And I understood. He was giving me a moment for every time I’d denied Him. Not to humiliate me—but to restore me.

Then He said, “Feed My sheep.”

He still wanted me. Still trusted me. Still believed I had something left to give.

I can’t explain what that moment did to me. It didn’t erase the guilt, but it gave the guilt somewhere to go. A purpose. A second chance.

And I took it.

From that day on, I spoke His name without shame. Loud. Unafraid. I told anyone who’d listen what I’d done—and what He did anyway.

I didn’t sugarcoat my failure. I led with it.

Because I wanted people to know: if He could forgive me, then no one was too far gone.

Years passed. The world changed.

I stood before rulers, priests, soldiers—anyone who tried to silence us—and I didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

I walked into towns where they hated us, and I preached anyway. I healed the sick. I baptized thousands. I led the early church through chaos and fear and blood.

And through it all, I remembered that night.

The night I denied Him.

The night He looked at me with heartbreak, not hate.

And the morning He welcomed me back without a single “I told you so.”

But there’s something I’ve never told anyone—not until now.

Years later, after everything… after I’d traveled across cities, watched miracles, and outlived most of the others—I found myself in Rome. The empire’s belly. Dangerous. Brutal. But I wasn’t afraid of death anymore.

And one night, just before they arrested me for the last time, I had a dream.

He was there.

Not glowing. Not distant. Just… Him. Sitting by a fire. Same eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Just smiled.

And I knew I was ready.

They crucified me too, not long after.

But I asked them to hang me upside down. Not because I was brave—but because I wasn’t worthy to die the same way He did.

That was my ending. But it didn’t feel like one.

Because every failure I ever made, every regret, every weakness—He met with love.

And that love gave my life more meaning than I could’ve imagined.

So if you’ve ever messed up badly…

If you’ve lied, betrayed, run away from who you said you’d be…

I get it.

But I’m telling you—there is still a way back.

You are not disqualified.

You’re not done.

He can still use you.

And maybe—just maybe—your biggest failure could become the beginning of something far greater than you planned.