I remember Joshua Iscariot. His mom and dad, Joanna and Marco, had him when they weren't married, but Josh didn't care.
Josh was born yellow and wouldn't cry. The doctors said he would be blind.
Josh persevered throughout his life to be independent in his blindness. I was one of his twelve closest friends, we led him around, helped him out, everything.
The thirteen of us stayed together for a very long time. We went to college together and always lived in the same city.
Josh was the nicest person anyone ever could wish for. He loved his parents, his friends, his teachers, his enemies, too. He always had a nice word or a story to tell for those who would listen. When we were older, he spoke to teen youths and young kids. He loved God, most of all. I swear he never sinned in his life.
In our thirties, many of us other twelve were married, had jobs and kids, and our own lives. We always went to see Josh, of course. He loved our children, nieces, nephews, everyone.
Josh always told us of the Good News. He went to church everyday and prayed before meals. Our constant reminder was to love our neighbor.
One day Joshua was walking down the street and passed an alley. Josh was never involved in gangs, but gangs hated him. Gangs ruled our city more than the mayor did. They loathed Josh's kindness.
When we found Joshua that afternoon, at about three or four, he was pinned to the wooden barrier at the back. His hands and feet were run through with narrow daggers, and a larger one pierced his side. The four daggers held him to the wall, and his head lolled, bruised and blackened, eyes staring into death.
When the murderers were caught, they testified that he had cried,
"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"