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Life is too short for boring stories

Where were you, His disciples, as He went down into the deepest of desolations? Where have you, His disciples, hidden you, trembling and fearful, when He died the death that embraces all others? Where have you been, Simon Peter, when He abandoned himself to inevitability? Where have you been, Simon Petrus, you rock that crumbles …

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You entered, walking straight towards Him, stopping right in front of Him, embracing the alabaster vessel, upright and strong. His blue eyes were on you, His eyes embraced you in all their fullness. No, you’ve never met a man like that, you’d never meet such a man again, and yet, as much as you wished …

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You stepped in front of your house, holding firmly the alabaster vessel with fragrant needle oil, which was no longer trembling, and your jet-black, long hair, freed from the cloth and hiding, glistened in the sun. All unrest had fallen away from you, and the looks, the envious and the malicious, the drooling and the …

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With all naturalness. So it was to share everything, including housework. Jesus, Mary and me. All the little things that are done because they are to be made. Rinse the tea cups e.g. Because you want to fill them again. Clean up the kitchen and the rest of the house. There were no discussions. It …

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