Special Easter edition.  Here is a short story meant to be read to school age children.  Maybe you’ll want to read it to a child you love this Easter.  Warning:  the question at the end may start a conversation!

“Hi!  My name is Simeon.  I’m seven years old.  I woke up early this morning because I was too excited to sleep.  My aunt and uncle and cousins came to spend the holidays with me and my family.  I couldn’t wait to get up and be with my favorite cousin, Asher.  He’s a few years older than me, but he lets me play with him.  Today, though, it isn’t about games, we have important things to talk about.  We’ll go out to the little shed behind my house where it’s quiet to talk over what’s been happening.  It’ll be only my pet lamb and us.  No little sisters pestering us.  Let me tell you how this all started.

The holiday is always exciting.  I look forward to Asher coming to visit every year and when he does, we always play, explore, and talk.  But this year the festival week was even more exciting than usual!   Several days ago a big parade approached my city with happy shouts. Our neighborhood was in an uproar.  What was going on?!  Who was the man at the center of the parade? The people around the man were shouting, “Thank God for the son of David!”  They claimed that the man was a prophet sent from God to help us.  Asher and I ran to join the crowd that gathered along the main street to catch a glimpse of him.  I thought he’d be riding a war horse like the important Roman generals, but he was on a small donkey just like ours.  Excitement was in the air as more people joined in the chant of welcome for the prophet, “Blessings on the King who comes in the name of the Lord!”  We happily joined in and followed the parade to the temple shouting, “Praise God for the Son of David!”.  We felt the happiness of our people welcoming the long-awaited prophet and king.  We knew he would come someday.  I guessed ‘someday’ had finally come!

But at the temple, the religious leaders got mad at us for shouting.  One old leader grabbed me, yelling at me to shut up and go home.  But the prophet came up to us just then.  He didn’t yell at me.  He looked kind.  I had the funny feeling he knew me when he looked me in the eye.

The old man let go of me immediately with an excuse aimed at the prophet,  “Do you hear what these children are saying?!”

“Yes, I hear them,”  he said, flashing me a smile and tousling my hair.  His voice was quiet but firm.  Turning to the irritated old man, he asked, “Haven’t you ever read God’s book?  It says that God teaches children and infants to praise him. Leave them alone.”

Every day after that my father and uncle went to the temple to listen to the prophet.  A few nights later, my father gathered the family around and re-told the story I’ve had heard ever since I can remember.  I’m named after my great-great-grandfather who loved God very much.  One day many years ago when he was at the temple, a young couple entered with a baby.  Old great-great-grandfather Simeon gathered the tiny baby into his arms and praised God.  God told him this baby was the special one Simeon had waited for all his life.  This one was sent by God to help his people.  Now more than thirty years later, my father was convinced this prophet that arrived this week was that baby grown into a man- the great prophet everyone was waiting for.  I figured the prophet would make a good king.  He wasn’t like the Romans, forcing you to do what they wanted. I remembered a Roman soldier kicking me because I accidentally got in his way.  But the prophet had put a gentle hand on me.  I liked him. He wasn’t like the short-tempered temple leaders, either.  He didn’t fuss at kids.  I hoped he would be in charge soon.

But in spite of the excitement and joy for the great feast and the arrival of the prophet, I was sad.  My cousin, Asher, had a serious talk with me in the shed.  He reminded me that my pet lamb, Shuie, was a year old this month.  He had been here last year for the holiday when the ewe died giving birth to Shuie.  Asher had watched me feed it milk every few hours and cuddle it to comfort and keep it warm.  My older cousin knew how much I loved my lamb. As kindly as possible, Asher explained that tradition demanded a year-old lamb must be killed to celebrate the fateful night long ago when our ancestors had been commanded to use lamb blood on their doors to protect their households from the destroying angel.  When the angel of death saw the blood, he passed over that home without harming the oldest child, but the households without the blood lost their firstborn.  I listened with growing fear.  The family needed a lamb to eat for the feast.  Would my father kill Shuie for the special meal?!

The day of the feast arrived.  My heart was heavy.  I couldn’t bear to think of my dearly loved lamb being killed.  I went out to the shed and threw my arms around Shuie for the last time.  The tears came as I buried my face in the lamb’s soft, thick wool.  I hoped Asher wouldn’t see me crying.  Then I heard footsteps approaching.  My father and uncle were talking.  They must be coming to kill Shuie!  At that moment, I heard my uncle saying to my father, “Let me go to the market and buy a lamb for our meal.  Asher told me how attached Simeon is to his pet lamb and besides, the lamb is on the small side.  Not really enough meat to feed all of us anyway.”  I felt like a heavy weight had been lifted off me!  I hugged my Shuie so tight.  He didn’t have to die today.

That night my family celebrated Passover.  We ate the traditional meal of lamb (from the market) and flatbread.  My father had repeated the story of freedom.  How our ancestors had been set free from slavery in Egypt on the night of the first Passover many generations ago.  But Father finished the old story with a new twist.  “Perhaps the prophet will deliver us from the Romans and give us freedom soon.”

But the next morning, rumors traveled through the city that the prophet was being killed by the Romans with the cooperation of our temple leaders.  Last night after the celebration of the Passover meal, the prophet had been arrested.  During the night he was taken to the temple council who condemned him to death for claiming to be the long awaited Messiah.  Early this morning they convinced the Roman governor to sentence him to death as a traitor because he claimed to be a king.  And now he was being forced along with two criminals to carry a cross on the street leading out of the city.  I didn’t go to see that procession.  I was shocked and sad.  Didn’t my father believe this was the long awaited prophet who would help his people?  Hadn’t the whole city turned out to welcome the prophet only a few days ago?  I could hear weeping in the street.  I wasn’t the only one who was heartbroken.

About noon the sky went dark.  I shuddered.  A pall hung over the city.  I went out back to the shed to cuddle Shuie.  Tears ran down my face.  Why did the prophet have to die?  He was so gentle and kind.  Why did some people hate him?  Lying on the straw next to Shuie, I fell asleep.  At three o’clock I woke with a start.  The earth was shaking!  The rumble of a great earthquake woke me up.  Shuie was standing in the doorway of the shed.  I joined him.  Soon after, my father came home with the news.  The prophet had died.  But strange signs had accompanied his death.  The thick curtain which was the partition for the holiest part of our temple had mysteriously split from top to bottom.  The prophet had given one last cry at the time of his death.  Then the earthquake shook the city and rocks closing the openings of tombs were split, opening the tombs.  The Roman soldiers in charge of the execution were terrified and declared his innocence.  His father was perplexed.  Why did God allow the prophet to be killed?  What could it all mean?

The next day was the day of worship at the temple, but the crowds were quiet.  None of us children were shouting hoorahs.  There was no prophet teaching the people.  Here and there, men spoke together in whispers about the events of the week.  The joy had gone out of the holiday.  Afterward, my family walked home in silence.  I was thinking that the prophet was like the Passover lamb.  He was gentle and harmless, but they killed him.  I couldn’t understand why God let him be killed.  I wished he could still be alive like my Shuie.

The following day was the first day of the week.  Only a couple of days left of the festival before cousin Asher would have to go home.  After breakfast, my father and uncle went to the market.  Asher and I went out to the shed to feed Shuie.  The men had been gone only a short time when they came rushing home without groceries, but with big news.  They were both breathless and talking at once explaining that some people said that the prophet had been seen alive.  Several women had gone to his grave early that morning but found it open and empty.  They had seen visions of angels.  Others had run to the grave and found that it was indeed empty.  What could it mean?!