One of His followers begged His body from the cross, to give Him a proper burial.
They cleaned the many wounds He had. Washed away the dried blood. They anointed His body with herbs, oils, and aromatic spices, trying to cover the scent of death. They wound His body tightly in the many yards of white linen that created His shroud.
They took Him – their King – to the tomb of the man that had begged His body. They reverently laid Him there, and the men rolled a heavy stone over the opening of the sepulcher.
Soon soldiers came to stand guard, so no followers could steal His body, take it away, create rumors about Him throughout the country side.
Mary’s benumbed heart sadly ached as she saw this – even in death they couldn’t leave her Son alone. Even in death, they couldn’t trust the Saviour that had been sent to them.
On the third day following His death, she made her way to the garden. The garden where her Son lay, cold, silent, in death’s grip. What had happened? Her mind told her to trust her God – her heart ached with grief.
She entered the garden and saw it. The stone – rolled away from the entrance. He wasn’t inside. Had the Romans taken Him away? Could they still give her dead Son no peace?
She felt tears, warm and salty, as they rolled unchecked down her cheeks. She entered the tomb and saw the grave clothes they had wrapped around her Son laying there, folded. She struggled with despair, strived to trust her God who had never yet failed her.
She saw them – two figures with heavenly countenances sitting where His head and feet should have been. They asked her why she wept. Why? Why was she crying? She told them. Someone had taken away her Son’s body, and she didn’t know where to find Him. Her Son!
She turned away, trying to make sense of it all. She saw a gardener standing near. He asked why she was crying. Again, she had been asked why she was crying? Everyone knew what had happened – her Son was dead. He had been killed. Tortured. She had stood by as He was mocked and scorned, heard His cry at being forsaken by God. Should she not cry? She begged the gardener to tell her where her Son’s body was. The gardener said one word.
Her mother’s heart leapt within her breast. She knew that Voice, all too well. She had heard that Voice cooing as a baby. Learning to talk. She had heard that Voice as a young boy talking to Rabbis. She had heard that Voice speaking to crowds, praying to His Father, commanding demons to leave. She had heard that Voice call out in anguish.
That Voice. The Voice she had yearned to hear once again.
She turned towards it.
“Rabonni – Master!”
As she walked away, she knew all was right with the world. Her Son had not been forsaken in the way she had supposed. He would go to be with His God, His Father. She would see Him again – her God still had a plan.
Her heart was light, her steps buoyant. “He’s alive!” she kept breathing. “He’s alive!” After all these years, she was beginning to understand all she had been pondering since her Son’s birth so many years ago. All the mystery, all the glory that had attended it.
She realized she would never be able to fully fathom what her Son’s defeat of death would meant for the world. She could only catch a glimpse of the wondrous plan God had for His people. A very small glimpse, a glimmer of hope in the darkness, a light shining brightly through the dark night that tempted to engulf and overwhelm.
“…Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.
But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable,
always abounding in the work of the Lord,
forasmuch as ye know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.”
~1 Corinthians 15:54-58~
I am a 23 year old young lady who is redeemed and saved from my sin only by the grace of God. A bibliophile at heart with a love of history who desires to see the Word of God practically applied to all aspects of our daily lives -- in our homes, in the grocery store, in the political realm. I strive to put my jumbled, chaotic thoughts down onto paper -- reducing them into black and white rows, letters, sentences. Into some semblance of sanity. And I share them here with all of you, where I can challenge you, make you think, and cause you to ask questions. I am the oldest of eleven children living the country life in the deep south.