The Ascension's Promise

The air still thrummed with the impossible. Not the impossible of loaves and fishes multiplying, or the dead walking, but the impossible of seeing Him, the Master, *ascend*. I’d seen Him after the tomb was empty, seen Him walk among us like a ghost made solid, His eyes holding a light that was both familiar and utterly transformed. It was a miracle upon miracles, this return from the abyss, and it was supposed to be the final, glorious confirmation. But then… then came the sky.

We stood there, a ragged band of men, huddled on that hill, the scent of dust and fear clinging to us. He’d spoken, His voice a melody that could calm a tempest or shatter a hardened heart. He’d laid His hands on us, one by one, a final blessing, a palpable transfer of something more potent than any earthly power. I felt it surge through me, a warmth that chased away the lingering chill of my denial, a quiet strength that whispered, *You are forgiven. You are ready.*

John, ever the contemplative soul, stood a little apart, his gaze fixed on Jesus, his brow furrowed not with doubt, but with an almost unbearable love. I saw the tears tracing paths through the grime on his cheeks, silent rivers of sorrow and wonder. He’d always been closest, hadn’t he? The one who leaned on Jesus’ breast, who understood the unspoken. I wondered what he saw in that moment, what profound truth was being etched into his spirit.