The Crucifixion Encounter

Hi! I’m Veronica.

You probably wonder about my purpose here, or why people later added Saint to my name. Yet I’m sure by the time I’m done telling my story, you may smile to yourself—because you’ll realize you’ve known me all along.

Let’s begin with this: I hailed from Caesarea Philippi, and I’m widely known as the woman who was subjected to uterine bleeding for over 12 years—and got healed after touching the hem of Jesus’ cloak.

You might have only thought about the liberation it brought, forgetting what it took to get there. Let’s ignore the time and money I spent consulting physicians, only to grow worse. We had all heard about a man who was doing great miracles—one they called the Messiah and Son of God.

In that era, women were forbidden from being at certain places—let alone doing what I did. But what could I have done? I had just returned from yet another failed session with a physician in Capernaum when I saw a crowd at the beach, welcoming this Messiah.

“He’s here!” chirped one woman.

I was pale, weak, so lean. I couldn’t push through the crowd, even if I wanted to catch his attention. But then, a ruler of the synagogue—Jairus—caused him to pause.

I crawled, stretching out my hand while assuring myself:

“If I just touch his clothes, I will get well.”

(Mark 5:28–29)

Immediately, I felt it—I was healed. The bleeding had stopped.

While I was still reflecting on what had just happened, I heard him ask,

“Who touched me?”

His tone wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t calm either. I kept quiet, hoping he’d ignore it—as his disciples suggested. But he urged on, turning in my direction. My heart pounded. I began to tremble. In fright, I made my way to him, falling at his feet, and with my face down, I mumbled,

“It was me.”

“I knew this was going to stir up trouble,” I murmured to myself.

But instead of a scowl, my eyes were met with a comforting smile.

“Thugater pistis sesoken.”

(Daughter, your faith has made you well. – Mark 5:34

So, when the news came that he had been taken in by the Roman soldiers, I—along with the other women—hurried to Jerusalem to catch a glimpse of him once more.

We weren’t allowed inside the Hall of Judgment, so we waited outside. Soon, the verdict was announced—he was to be hung on a cross. A shameful sentence reserved for slaves and criminals.

Then the soldiers emerged.

They had scourged him so brutally, we could hardly recognize him. He looked disfigured, half-dead. Following him was a crowd—people who once followed and adored him, now jeering and hurling insults.

It broke me. I only prayed his mother wouldn’t see this.

The soldiers hit him again. He stumbled. The cross was too heavy, and his strength was gone.

“This will send a clear message to other false prophets,” one man sneered.

I doubt he’d say that if he knew who he was speaking about.

When Jesus fell again, one of the soldiers dragged a young man forward—Simon of Cyrene—to carry the cross.

“This may be the only chance,” I whispered to myself.

I rushed forward.

“Adonai!” I cried, kneeling before him again.

He raised his head slowly. His eyelids were swollen, his face bruised, blood clouding his vision. I handed him my veil to wipe his face. He pressed it gently, then returned it to me with a faint smile—a smile that reminded me of the first time he healed me.

Suddenly, a soldier yanked me backward, and the procession continued.

I stood still, holding tightly to the veil, heartbroken. I opened it to fold it—only to see it:

His holy face imprinted on the fabric.

I didn’t make it to Calvary that day. There was something too sacred to preserve. This veil, they say, later healed the sick—including Emperor Tiberius—and even raised the dead.

It earned me the name Saint Veronica, and I carried it with me on every journey with my husband, Zacchaeus—yes, the once greedy tax collector—after he met Jesus and changed forever.

Some say I was brave. But I say:

“He literally died in my stead.”

That is the bravest, dearest thing anyone could ever offer.