"So little time, so much yet to do." Jesus muttered to himself quietly as he strode down the dusty road to Jerusalem. "Apostles of God, keep strong; for the heavens will soon provide us with food and shelter."

It was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep his men moving these days. Jesus wondered, as does any shepherd when his sheep are under duress from predators, how these devoted followers would fare after he had returned from whence he came.

"My Lord," James moaned, "how much longer must we wait before we are given bread and enjoying the warm bosom of a woman?"

"Lord," chimed in his brother, "why not use your powers on our behalf that we may rest beneath the shade of a tree and partake of wine, bread, and figs of your making?"

James and John. How aptly their nickname "Sons of Thunder" fit them.

Barely able to hide his irritation, Jesus tried to respond with restraint. "Faithful brothers, you well know that the power of the Holy Ghost is not meant for marketplace tricks or self-serving means. May the patience of Job be manifest in all of us this day, for we shall soon be at the city where all things must occur."

Murmuring under their breath, the brothers picked up their pace. There was a determination within them spurred on by both frustration and sense of duty. Hours crawled by in silence, and the crucible of the hot mid-day passed.

Breaking the silence with a start, Bartholomew bellowed much too loudly, "Lord, I beseech you, please let us pause, for I have snapped a sandal strap and I feel something powerful coming over me."

"What is it you feel? Is it a vision of the holiness that awaits us?", Peter asked, his mind on higher spiritual glory as always.

"No Pete," he answered, "I just need to fix my sandal, take a lunatic wizz and possibly snap off a log or two."

Among his twelve, Bartholomew was always the most likely to provide vexation for Jesus. Between his apparent disregard of proper volume control and general social ineptitude, he regularly tested the patience of all the in the group.

"Bart-bro," Jesus placed a hand on his face, pondering a way to mush him onwards. "Become the holiness and self-control that King David was when he spared the life of wicked King Saul, and use that self-control to tighten thy bladder and sphincter. For in the paradise of heaven that awaits you, your small bladder and irritable bowel syndrome shall be no more."

Bartholomew nodded, furrowing his brow. "Lord, I will squeeze my innards as tightly as I can and continue on, for the glory of your name. But I must know, what is this 'sphincter' and 'irritable bowel syndrome' you speak of? Is it a curse? A dark word of anger from the Devil himself?" He shouted, cacophonous as usual.

Damn! I must be tired today. I almost never slip up and use future terms with these people. Jesus cringed at his blunder. Must... do... damageā€¦ controlā€¦ and not bite off Bart's head.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways my brother." Jesus tried to assuage his worry, but the sincerity was lacking. "All things will be made clear when the time is right. Have faith o' loyal Bartholomew!"

"Our Lord speaks truth, Bartholomew son of Talemai. I've no doubt that the wisdom and glory of the heavens themselves, the abode of our Lord, will soon bless our souls!" Chimed in Peter energetically.

Finally losing his cool, the outspoken Phillip ranted. "For crap's sake guys! Can we just get moving again? I want to be drinking wine, balls deep in some temple prostitute's snatch before this day has ended."

Content with the ensuing silence, Jesus continued leading his apostles to Jerusalem; where his destiny would determine the fate of mankind.