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| The Night They Didn't Believe |
We had gathered to pray for Peter, imprisoned and guarded by soldiers. Fear hung over Jerusalem, and none of us knew whether he would live to see another day. Then came a knock at Mary's gate.
My name is Mara, and I was there the night the answer to our prayers stood outside—and we nearly refused to believe it.
Scroll down to read…Word of James's death had traveled quickly through Jerusalem.
Herod had ordered him killed with the sword, and the news shook the believers. James, the brother of John, had walked with Jesus. He had witnessed things many of us knew only through the testimony of others. Now he was gone.
Then Peter was arrested.
I was purchasing grain at the marketplace when I overheard two women speaking in hushed voices. At the mention of Peter's arrest, my heart sank.
By evening, there was no longer any doubt. Herod had imprisoned him, placing him under heavy guard. The days of unleavened bread were upon us, and we knew Peter's imprisonment was no ordinary matter.
I knew what could happen when rulers discovered that persecuting the followers of Jesus pleased the crowds.
I feared Peter would be next.
Mary, the mother of John whose surname was Mark, opened her home to those who wished to gather in prayer. I had visited her house many times, but never had its familiar rooms seemed so burdened with sorrow.
People arrived quietly, some alone, others in pairs. A few looked over their shoulders before entering. The door was secured behind them.
No one needed to explain why we had come.
Peter was in prison, and we were going to pray.
As the evening deepened, the house grew warm with the presence of so many people.
Some sat against the walls. Others knelt upon the floor. A few stood with bowed heads, their lips moving silently.
I found a place near a small lamp, where I could see the doorway leading toward the courtyard.
Mary moved quietly among us, making certain there was water for those who needed it. Rhoda, the young servant girl, helped wherever she could.
I had always found Rhoda pleasant and eager, though she sometimes moved so quickly that I wondered whether her feet could keep pace with her thoughts.
That night, however, even she seemed subdued.
We prayed for Peter.
We prayed that the Lord would strengthen him, protect him, and deliver him from Herod's hands.
I cannot tell you how many times I bowed my head or how often I raised it again. The hours seemed to stretch endlessly. Whenever someone shifted near the entrance, I found myself looking up.
There were moments when I thought of James.
We had prayed for him, too.
That memory troubled me more than I wished to admit.
I believed the Lord heard us. I believed He was able to deliver Peter. Yet I also knew that James had died, and I could not pretend that knowledge had left my heart untouched.
As the night wore on, I watched the faces around me.
Some were weary. Others remained intensely focused. One man pressed his hands against his forehead as though trying to shut out every thought except the words of his prayer.
I wondered whether anyone else feared what the morning might bring.
Peter was to be brought before the people after the Passover season. Time was slipping away.
Still, we prayed.
Later that evening, I remember I had been sitting quietly, listening to the prayers around me, when a faint sound reached us from outside.
At first, I thought I had imagined it.
Then I heard it again.
Someone was knocking at the outer gate.
I turned toward the courtyard entrance.
Rhoda had heard it, too, and hurried away to answer.
I watched her disappear into the dim passage, then returned my attention to those praying nearby.
A visitor at such an hour was not unusual, though it always brought a measure of concern. Perhaps another believer had come to join us. Perhaps someone carried news.
I hoped it was not the latter.
Moments later, Rhoda rushed back into the room, breathless with excitement.
"Peter is standing before the gate!"
"Thou art mad," someone answered.
But Rhoda insisted it was Peter.
"It is his angel," another replied.
Surely I had misunderstood.
Peter was in prison, guarded by soldiers. How could he possibly be standing outside Mary's house?
Several people turned toward Rhoda, their expressions filled with disbelief.
I looked from Rhoda to those gathered around me. Instead of rushing outside, we stood there trying to make sense of her announcement.
I remember looking toward the gate again. It remained closed.
And Peter, if Rhoda was telling the truth, was still standing on the other side.
The knocking continued.
I wondered what Peter must have been thinking as he stood outside the gate.
He had escaped prison, passed the guards, and made his way through Jerusalem. Yet he could not get inside the house where his friends were praying for him.
The thought would later make me smile.
At that moment, however, my heart was pounding.
At last, someone moved to open the gate.
I rose from my place and followed the others toward the entrance.
The night air met us as the gate opened.
And there stood Peter, alive and free, looking as though he had simply returned from an ordinary journey.
I cannot describe the astonishment that swept through the gathering.
People pressed forward. Others drew back, scarcely believing what their eyes were telling them.
I stood motionless.
Only a short while earlier, I had been wondering whether Peter would survive his imprisonment.
Now he was standing within reach.
The prayers we had offered throughout the night had been answered.
Peter raised his hand, motioning for everyone to be silent. Gradually, the excited voices faded.
He began telling us how the Lord had delivered him from prison. An angel had appeared beside him, his chains had fallen away, and the iron gate leading into the city had opened before him. He had walked past the guards, scarcely believing what was happening until he found himself standing alone in the street.
I listened, trying to imagine Peter making his way through Jerusalem while we remained inside Mary's house, unaware that the very thing we had prayed for had already taken place.
When he finished, Peter instructed us to tell James and the brethren what had happened. Then, knowing the danger was far from over, he departed.
For a while, no one seemed eager to leave. The room that had been so quiet earlier was now filled with relieved voices. Some embraced one another. Others remained seated, still trying to comprehend what they had witnessed.
I glanced toward Rhoda. She had returned to her duties, though I noticed a small smile upon her face.
I could hardly blame her.
She had told us Peter was standing outside, and we had questioned her as though she were imagining things.
I looked toward the courtyard, where the gate now stood closed.
Only a short while earlier, Peter had been on the other side, knocking while we continued praying for his release.
I shook my head and smiled.
Of all the things that happened that night, I wondered how long it would take us to live down the fact that we had nearly left the answer to our prayers standing outside.
🕊️ An Echoes of Scripture Story
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