Chapter 25 | Among Them
I wrapped the raisins in clean linen. Chose the best of the early grapes. Added a small jar of preserved wine—the last of what had survived the storm without souring.
It was not a plan. I had only meant to come.
But I did not come empty-handed.
Capernaum was already awake when I reached it. Nets stretched along low walls. Children ran errands barefoot. The lake lay calm, indifferent to everything that had changed in me.
I stopped first at Mira’s house.
Liora opened the door.
She took in the basket, then my face.
“You’ve come,” she said, not as a question.
“Yes.”
“She’s at Matthew’s,” Liora replied. “You know the old sycamore near the well? Take the narrow lane beside it. Third house past the stone trough. Blue cloth over the doorway. You’ll hear them before you see them.”
I nodded.
As I turned to go, she caught my sleeve lightly.
“Talia.”
I paused.
“You don’t have to stand outside it anymore,” she said quietly.
I held her gaze.
“I know,” I said.
She smiled once. “Then go. And don’t stand at the threshold like a guest.”
I followed her directions.
At the bend near Mira’s house, I noticed a man leaning against a low wall across the road. His robe was sand-colored and perfectly clean—too clean for someone who’d been walking the shoreline. His hands were tucked neatly into his sleeves.
He appeared to be looking nowhere in particular.
But his eyes flicked once—toward Mira’s door. Like he was watching.
I did not recognize him, but something in me recoiled.
I kept walking.
Matthew’s house was easy to find. The blue cloth stirred above the entrance. Voices drifted out—women’s voices. Laughter.
I slowed.
Not because I had forgotten the way. Because I had stood outside this before.
Not the doorway—this.
Their ease with one another. Their comfort and familiarity. The way they spoke of Him as though they knew Him, not just followed Him.
I had not belonged to that.
I had watched it, measured it, resisted it, and still, something in me had wanted it.
I stood at the threshold only a moment before stepping inside.
Mira looked up first.
“Talia?”
Malka turned. “Well, well.”
Ruth was there—and another woman I recognized by her dark eyes and the quiet strength in the way she stood.
Mira glanced between us. “Have you met Mary of Magdala?”
The woman’s gaze met mine, unwavering.
“Shalom, Mary,” I said, inclining my head. “I’m Talia.”
“You have the vineyard,” she said. “And the endurance of many men.”
I held her gaze a moment longer, unsure whether to thank her or deflect it.
Instead, I bent and set the basket down between us.
“I came to see you,” I said.
No speech prepared. No flourish.
“I brought something,” I added, pushing the basket toward them. “It’s not much.”
Ruth unwrapped the linen. “Raisins,” she said approvingly. “And grapes.”
“For the road,” I said. “Or for the Teacher. Or for whoever needs them.”
Mary studied me with that steady gaze.
“There’s more,” Malka stated, not questioning.
There was.
I drew a breath.
“Jesus is the Messiah.”
The words did not tremble.
Malka’s eyes sharpened slightly. “Are you saying you believe?”
“Yes.”
I held her gaze.
“He is Lord.”
The room did not erupt. There was no gasp. No spectacle.
Only recognition.
Mira crossed the space first and embraced me.
I stiffened only a fraction of a second—
Then I let myself accept the embrace. Feel its comfort.
Malka followed. Ruth’s hand found my arm. Mary stepped closer and wrapped me in, not tight, but firm.
I did not pull away.
For a long moment, I let myself be held.
And something in me—something that had stood apart, measuring and holding back—finally stepped forward.
When they drew back, I did not feel like I had crossed into something strange.
Only that I had been let in.
“You are not alone in this,” Mary said.
“Do not be a stranger,” Mira added. “You are always welcome here.”
Ruth smiled. “Especially if you bring raisins.”
A small laugh escaped me.
Malka tilted her head. “I heard ‘ole broad shoulders came to help you.”
Heat rose in my cheeks.
“The thundercloud,” she added mildly.
I tried to look unimpressed. Failed.
“Turns out,” I said carefully, “he’s not all thunder.”
Mira’s eyes gleamed. “We know.”
“And, yes,” I admitted. “Many of them helped. Peter. John too. We are grateful.”
Mira nodded. “They would have helped anyway.”
Malka’s smile deepened. “But James was adamant.”
I looked up.
“He cares for you,” Mira said. “I think he has since our wedding. Even if you were too busy arguing to notice.”
“That’s an understatement,” I muttered.
Laughter rippled gently around the room.
Ruth leaned toward me slightly. “He’s different now.”
“Yes,” I said softly. “He is.”
“And so am I,” I said, a tear slipping free.
Mira began dividing the raisins into smaller bowls.
“There’s already talk of going to Jerusalem for Passover,” she said. “Some of the others plan to travel together.”
Mary glanced toward me.
“Will you?”
I shook my head slowly.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “There’s so much work—rebuilding after the storm. Every jar, every vine, every coin matters right now.”
Mary nodded. “There is always work,” she said. “But there is also calling.”
I absorbed that in silence.
“I will support the ministry,” I said instead. “Food when we can spare it. Dried fruit. Wine when the vines recover.”
Malka reached for my hand.
“That is more than enough.”
For a while we kept to simple talk—bread, weather, the Teacher’s growing crowds and the strain of travel. There was no drama in it, no pretense. Only the quiet ease of women, of friends.
When I stepped back into the sunlight, the basket lighter in my hands, I paused at the edge of the street, realizing I did not feel like an outsider among them.