Sunday. The Eighth Day.

The door opens and Thomas enters in, the small hot room is filled with men. The meal is being set out on the table. John is wearing a towel, finishing washing Matthew’s feet. Matthew is weeping but there’s no sadness in the tears.

"Look who’s here!" Andrew shouting. Thomas waves as Andrew locks the door behind him.

"Tom" Peter bellows while Thomas says "Hey Pete"

"Tommy!" Phil shouts.

"Hey, you’re here!" John, rising from the floor coming over with bucket in hand. Thomas and Andrew walk towards the group.

"Guys, I’m only here for a little bit but I gotta’ tell you–"

"Shalom. Shalom be with you." The voice comes to the right shoulder of Thomas. The door is still closed, the lockbar still in place.

Silence. The disciples are transfixed over Thomas’ shoulder and he doesn’t breathe as He closes his eyes and slowly turns around.

"Tom. Come over here with your finger and see My hands. Why don’t you also put your hand here, in My side. Stop doubting but believe."

Thomas doesn’t move; he barely looks at the very real evidence of the risen Jesus. He stares at his eyes and his long, lonely week slam into him bringing him to his knees, knocking him down to understand and confess.

"You are the Lord Messiah–but more, you are my Lord Master. You are my Lord God. My Lord and My God."