The Boy Who Would Become The Savior
mustapha umoru@umorumustapha596358
22 days ago
YOUNG CHRIST (Chapter 3)
Biblical Fiction
Copyrighted©️
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The School of the Spirit buzzed with its usual energy as students moved through the brightly lit halls, their conversations blending into a hum of anticipation. The building itself was a mix of old-world charm and modern design. Gothic-style arches framed the large glass windows, and vibrant murals depicting spiritual scenes adorned the walls.
In a quiet corner of the school’s courtyard, Abigail sat alone beneath a towering oak tree, her sketchpad resting on her lap. Her dark curls framed a face etched with worry as her pencil moved furiously across the paper, capturing fragments of the disturbing vision that had haunted her the night before.
She had seen it so clearly: a cross, stark and heavy, silhouetted against a dark sky. A crown of thorns, dripping with blood, rested ominously beside it. The image was both vivid and incomprehensible, and it left a weight on her chest she couldn’t shake.
“Abigail?”
She looked up to see Jesus approaching, his expression calm but curious. He carried the quiet confidence she had come to admire, a presence that seemed to bring peace wherever he went.
“I saw you sitting here,” he said, gesturing to the bench beside her. “Mind if I join you?”
She hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Sure.”
Jesus sat down, his gaze falling on the sketchpad in her lap. “What are you drawing?”
Abigail hesitated, unsure if she should share. “It’s…something I saw,” she said finally, flipping the pad around to show him.
Jesus studied the drawing in silence. The cross and the crown of thorns were rendered in stark detail, their imagery heavy with meaning. He could feel the weight of the vision in his spirit, though he kept his expression steady.
“Have you told anyone else about this?” he asked gently.
She shook her head. “No one would understand. They’d think I’m imagining things, or worse, that I’m trying to get attention.”
“I don’t think that,” Jesus said, his voice reassuring. “Sometimes, we’re shown things that don’t make sense right away. But that doesn’t mean they’re not important.”
Abigail looked at him, her eyes searching his. “Do you know what it means?”
Jesus paused, his gaze shifting back to the drawing. “I think it’s a symbol of something greater, something yet to come. But don’t let it scare you. Visions like these aren’t meant to harm us. They’re meant to guide us.”
Abigail felt a flicker of relief at his words, as though a heavy door had cracked open just enough to let in some light.
“You’re different, you know that?” she said with a small smile.
Jesus chuckled softly. “So I’ve been told.”
“No, I mean it,” she insisted. “You see things clearly, in a way that most people don’t. It’s like you know exactly what to say.”
“It’s not about knowing,” Jesus said, his tone thoughtful. “It’s about listening. To God, to others, even to yourself. The answers are usually there if you’re willing to hear them.”
Abigail nodded, her shoulders relaxing. “Thank you, Jesus. I think…I think I needed to hear that.”
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Meanwhile, Principal Herod stood in his office, overlooking the courtyard from his large glass window. His sharp features were set in a thoughtful expression as he watched Jesus and Abigail beneath the oak tree.
“Jesus of Nazareth,” he murmured to himself, tapping his fingers against the edge of his desk.
There had been whispers among the faculty about the new student, how he carried himself with an unusual authority that seemed to draw people in. Even the teachers, seasoned in guiding gifted students, spoke of his insight with awe.
Herod’s lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. “Let’s see how far this goes.”
He turned away from the window and picked up a file from his desk, flipping through its contents. The pages detailed not only Jesus’ enrollment but also his family background, the whispers of divine origins that Herod dismissed as fanciful rumors.
Still, he couldn’t ignore the boy’s growing influence.
Later that evening, Jesus sat in his room, the image of Abigail’s drawing etched into his mind. He prayed silently, seeking understanding.
“Father,” he whispered, his voice steady but low, “is this a glimpse of what is to come? If it is, give me the strength to bear it. And help me guide those who look to me for answers.”
The room seemed to grow still, a quiet reassurance filling the air. Jesus opened his eyes, a sense of calm washing over him. He didn’t yet have all the answers, but he knew he would, in time.
The next morning, Abigail sought him out in the cafeteria, her face lighter than it had been the day before.
“Hey,” she said, sitting across from him. “I just wanted to say thanks. For listening. For understanding.”
Jesus smiled. “Anytime.”
“You know,” she said, glancing at her tray, “I think you’re right. Maybe the vision isn’t something to fear. Maybe it’s just…a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?”
“To trust that there’s a plan,” she said, meeting his gaze.
Jesus nodded, his smile deepening. “Exactly.” ….
