CHAPTER 7: The Man Who Looked at Me
No one had looked at me kindly in years.
In the narrow streets of Jerusalem, I had learned how to keep my eyes low and my heart guarded. People knew my name, but they spoke it like a curse. I was the woman others whispered about, the one mothers warned their daughters not to become. Shame clung to me like dust—impossible to wash away.
That morning, the sun rose as it always did, indifferent to human sorrow. I carried my jar toward the well at an hour when no one else came. Loneliness had become safer than judgment.
Then I saw Him.
He sat near the well, tired, dusty, ordinary. Nothing about Him announced greatness. Yet when His eyes met mine, something in me trembled. He did not look away. He did not judge. He saw me.
Will you give me a drink?" He asked.
I froze. Men like Him did not speak to women like me—especially not with gentleness. His voice carried no accusation, only need.
I gave Him water, and in return, He gave me something far greater: attention without contempt.
As He spoke, it felt as though He knew me—every mistake, every regret, every silent prayer I had buried under years of failure. And yet, instead of condemnation, He offered mercy.
"You are not forgotten," His eyes seemed to say.
"You are not beyond love."
For the first time in my life, I believed it might be true.
Next Love That Crossed Boundaries
He walked through towns others avoided. He touched the untouchable. He ate with sinners, laughed with children, and welcomed the broken as though they were honored guests.
I followed Him after that day.
Not as a disciple with authority, but as a witness—watching love move through human flesh. I saw Him stop for beggars when crowds pushed forward. I saw Him weep at a friend's grave. I saw Him forgive those who did not deserve it, including myself.
His love was not fragile. It did not depend on perfection. It was fierce and patient, gentle and unbreakable.
Once, the religious leaders dragged a woman before Him—caught in sin, trembling with fear. Stones were ready. Death was certain.
"Whoever is without sin," He said quietly, "let him throw the first stone."
Silence fell like a held breath.
One by one, stones dropped. Accusers left. The woman remained.
Neither do I condemn you, He told her. Go, and sin no more.
In that moment, I understood: His love did not excuse sin, but it refused to destroy the sinner.
That was the kind of love that could heal the world.
Next :When Hope Looked Like Defeat
Not everyone welcomed Him.
As His following grew, so did fear. Power does not like love that sets people free. Leaders plotted. Friends grew anxious. Rumors spread like fire.
I remember the night He was arrested.
The air felt wrong, heavy with dread. Torches flickered. Soldiers shouted. One of His own betrayed Him with a kiss.
We ran.
I hid, shaking, while they dragged Him away. I told myself I was not brave enough to follow. But the truth was darker: I was afraid that loving Him would cost me everything.
By morning, the city roared with bloodlust.
Crucify Him.
I watched from a distance as they nailed Him to wood. The sound of the hammer still haunts my dreams. The sky darkened. The earth trembled.
This was not how love was supposed to end.
He hung there—mocked, beaten, bleeding—and yet even then, His voice carried forgiveness.
"Father, forgive them. They do not know what they are doing."
Love, I realized, was not dying on that cross.
It was choosing to stay.
Next: Love Stronger Than Death
When He breathed His last, something inside me died too.
We wrapped His body with trembling hands and laid Him in a borrowed tomb. A stone sealed the entrance. Hope felt sealed with it.
Three days passed like an endless night.
On the third morning, I returned to the tomb before sunrise. Grief had become my only companion. But when I arrived, the stone was rolled away.
The tomb was empty.
Fear and confusion collided in my chest. Had someone taken Him? Had death stolen even His body from us?
Then I heard my name.
Not shouted. Not demanded.
Spoken with love.
I turned, and there He stood.
Alive.
Every scar was real, yet transformed. Death had not erased Him—it had been defeated by Him.
In that moment, I understood: His love was not a lesson. It was a victory.
Next: Love That Still Calls Names
Years have passed since that morning.
Empires rise and fall. Cities burn and rebuild. People still wound one another. Hearts still break.
Yet His love remains.
I have seen it reach thieves, scholars, soldiers, and children. I have seen it restore marriages, forgive murderers, and give dignity to the forgotten.
His love does not shout from palaces. It whispers in prisons. It waits patiently at wells. It calls names in graveyards.
It called mine.
And it is calling yours.
You do not have to be worthy.
You do not have to be clean.
You do not have to understand everything.
You only have to come.
Because the love of Jesus does not fail.
It does not run out.
It does not give up.
It walks toward the cross—and beyond it—just to find you.
Epilogue: The Love That Writes This Story
This is not just my story.
It is the story of anyone who has ever felt unseen. Anyone who has ever believed they were too broken to be loved.
His love is still being written—one heart at a time.
And the final word will never be death.
It will always be love.