photo #8662570

It's Saturday. You're praying: "Thank God it's the weekend."In 203 AD, Perpetua woke up Saturday knowing it was arena day.She prayed: "Thank God I get to finish this."Same gratitude. Different stakes.You know what she did that morning before they took her?She braided her hair.The guards asked why. "A martyr shouldn't look disheveled on her day of triumph."Then she walked into the arena like a bride walking to her wedding.Your Saturday prayer: "Let me rest."Her Saturday prayer: "Let me finish well."What do you pray when you know you're going to die tomorrow?In 203 AD, Perpetua wrote her last prayer the night before the arena.It wasn't what you'd expect.She didn't pray: "God, save me."She didn't pray: "Let this pass."She wrote: "I saw a ladder reaching to heaven. So narrow only one person could climb at a time. And swords and spears on every side—so if you climbed carelessly, you'd be torn apart."At the top of the ladder, she saw a garden.A man with white hair was milking sheep. He looked at her and said: "Welcome, child."She woke up knowing what it meant.Tomorrow she'd climb that ladder. The beasts would tear her body. But she'd reach the garden.Her last written prayer:"Thank You for showing me I won't climb alone."Not "Please save me from this.""Thank You for showing me what comes after."She died the next day. Age 22. Nursing mother.