The Palm Sunday parade through Jerusalem, with Jesus riding triumphant as he entered, is past. The final meal with his disciples and friends is fast approaching. It’s so close to the end of Lent, but the hardest part is almost upon us: betrayal, denial, death.

Judas betrays Jesus, the religious leaders sacrifice him to keep the peace and their power, Peter denies knowing Jesus, and God-With-Us dies on a cross. Only a handful of women and the disciple John stayed with him, the rest scattered in terror.

Every year I wonder where I would have been. Would I be among the women who stayed or among those who ran? I hope I would have stayed; I fear I would have run.

For the first time, this year I wonder if asking this question really matters. There’s no way of knowing its true answer. If I think I’d have stayed, perhaps I overestimate my own faithfulness and courage; if I assume I’d run, how does that help me live a life of faith?

Maybe it’s time to let go of that question, whatever the answer, and love what is truly amazing: Jesus loved them all, the runners and the steadfast.