It was weird.  It was really weird.  The sky that afternoon had taken on a ghastly, ghostly, almost haunted hue.  Ever since the mid-day bells had rung it had been like the edge of night.  The darkness of the day seemed to reflect the way the apostle felt.  It seemed to reflect the darkness of his soul and the darkness of the event taking place.

John; one of the chosen twelve; one of the inner circle of leadership; the one who always seemed closest to Jesus, stood shrouded in his own sorrow.  The lump  in his throat ached  as he stood there at the foot of the cross where Jesus hung.  He could feel Mary, Jesus' mother, shudder in agony and grief as only a mother could, as he held her in his strong arm.  John wasn't really sure who was comforting who as they both stood there on that ugly hi…