It was just like Jesus said it would be. Why was I always surprised?

John and I arrived in the city, and after several wrong turns, we finally found the house that Jesus had described to us.

The front door opened as we approached the house, and a woman and young teen stepped out.

“We’ve been waiting for you, I’m Abigail, and this is Mark. Where is Jesus?”

John answered, “He’s coming behind us with the rest of the group. He wanted us to come and make sure things were ready for tonight’s meal. Can we see the room?”

“Certainly, Mark, show these gentlemen the upper room while I continue getting the food ready.”

The boy was full of questions as he led us up the outside stairs. “What was Jesus like?” “How many of us would there be for tonight’s meal?” “Where were we going after the celebrations.” We’d just answer one question when another popped out.

The upper room was exactly that, a room upstairs. In the center of the room was an enormous table.

“Look at the size of that thing,” John exclaimed.

“I know,” I said, shaking my head. “We could all fit on one side.”

“We could,” he replied, “But why? that just be weird.”

 “Mother wasn’t sure how many there would be, so she found several tables and put them all together.”

Off to the side, another table held everything that would be needed for the celebration. After separating the tables into one of a more manageable size, the three of us started setting them with cups and plates.

The day was getting short, and we weren’t sure how long it would be before Jesus, and the rest of the group would be there, but we wanted everything to be ready when they arrived.

Abagail had brought most of what we would need to the room, and we could smell the lamb being roasted over the fire.

“We’ve already checked for leaven, but mother said you would probably want to do it yourself, so she left two lamps to make things easier.

The room was spotless. Our hosts had obviously wanted everything to be perfect for Jesus. Even knowing there was nothing to be found, tradition dictated that we search the room to make sure there was no leaven. So, we took the lamps and did what Jews had been doing for over a thousand years.

When we were done, we placed the saltwater, bitter herbs and charoset on the table, making sure there would be some within easy reach of everyone. And while there wasn’t much that could be done with the herbs, the charoset looked and smelled divine. I know the mixture was supposed to remind us of the mortar used while our ancestors were slaves in Egypt, but if the mortar had smelled half as good, there wouldn’t have been much bricklaying going on. I don’t know what Abagail had done, but the aroma of fruit and nuts combined with the cinnamon sticks filled the room. I was just about to dip my finger in one of the bowls when John slapped the back of my hand.

“Really Peter? Really? You can take the boy off the boat, but . . .”

“Hey, nobody would have known.”

“Again, really, Peter?”

Just then, we heard Mark’s name being called, and he left us to help his mother carve the lamb.

“You know this is it?” John had stepped in close, “Things are coming to a head. Nothing will be the same after this weekend.”

“Do you really think he’ll make his move during the Passover?”

“Something has to happen; things can’t continue the way they’ve been going. Either Jesus will make his move, or the priests will have to deal with him.”

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