The Full Story
About the Gospel of Eliana
This story began with the sense that some things are carried forward without being named. It moves between two worlds—ancient Judea and modern New York—not to compare them, but to let them rest alongside one another, joined by memory, silence, and time. The narrative is drawn toward moments where faith is lived, shaped as much by witnessing traumatic events from the past as well as how one copes with the present. In both timelines, what endures is not what is declared aloud, but what is borne inwardly: the weight of inheritance, the persistence of longing, the way the past continues to speak even when it no longer announces itself.
The ancient world that surrounds Christ is approached from the margins, without spectacle or proclamation, but as an observer of significant events that will shake the world in time. This is not a retelling, but an act of attention—standing near what is sacred without claiming it. Questions are left open, allowing meaning to emerge slowly, as faith often does.
Why This Book?
Some stories exist to explain the past. This one exists to sit beside it.It was shaped by a sense that faith is often lived in silence, and that what endures is not always what is recorded or declared.
Between ancient Judea and the present day runs a continuity that cannot be mapped neatly—one carried through memory, inheritance, and the slow passing of time.
This book exists to hold space for to honor questions without forcing resolution. To allow the sacred to remain near, as faith lived. In doing so, it trusts the reader to meet the story quietly, in reflection, and to carry forward what resonates.
Author Note
This novel began with a question, not an answer.
I wanted to imagine what it might mean for a woman’s voice — faithful, observant, and deliberately erased — to survive across centuries. Not as legend, but as testimony.
This is not a book about certainty.
It is a book about transmission — how truth is carried, protected, and sometimes hidden, until the right moment to be seen.
Excerpt
Chapter 2
Simone
The Maignon Building, New York City
Tuesday, October 17—7 p.m.
Even the air felt cooler at this height, thinner, purer.
Simone balanced in fourth position—one foot angled ahead, one arm lifted, the other poised upright. Then she leapt from the parapet, landing neatly on the ledge. Years of ballet training had not abandoned her
.
She patted the dust from her pants and leaned against the stone, gazing down. Cars rushed past, sirens wailed, and the food trucks below were still busy with late-night diners. Delancey Street had become a mecca for North African food—a city of cuisines stacked corner to corner. She imagined cumin and coriander rising through the night air, sharpened by the scent of mint and cilantro.
Her mind drifted. Falafel with her father in Jerusalem—the crunch of chickpeas fried golden, eaten off a dingy street cart. She sighed. She missed them.
