Three Days: A Mother's Story (12 page)

Of course, I have no idea whether Jesus was even mindful of such things on that day when he so graciously excused this woman, who had actually sinned, but I love that he showed such depth of compassion. And I was also quite impressed, perhaps even a bit proud, at how he stumped the members of the Sanhedrin.

Yet this memory brings me frustration tonight. For I cannot understand how it went like that with the Sanhedrin that day and then went so differently just two days ago. Of course, I know Jehovah’s ways are much, much higher than mine and no one can second-guess the Almighty. But still I wonder. I am weary with wonder.

15

I MUST HAVE DOZED off, for when I awaken it is with the memory of another dream still stirring freshly within me. Unlike the last one, this dream is not a nightmare; this dream almost gives me hope. In my dream I saw my son Jesus greeting his friend Lazarus. Both were dressed in shining white clothing and smiling. I have no idea what this means, but it does remind me of something that happened not too long ago.

As usual, I went early to the well in Nazareth. As I was walking toward it, I could see Rachel and Myra, and I could tell they were anxious to see me.

“We are so glad you are here,” Myra called. “Come, Mary! Come and hear what Rachel has to say.”

“I heard the most astounding thing!” Rachel said.

I set down my jug and waited.

“My niece and her husband from Cadasa spent the evening in my house last night. They were on their way home from Jerusalem, where they had been to redeem their firstborn son, Samuel.”

“
Come on
, Rachel,” Myra urged.

“All right. All right. My cousin said that all around Jerusalem there was talk of a man named Lazarus who lived nearby in Bethany. It seems he had been very sick and then he died.”

I nodded, waiting for her to continue, curious as to why this story should concern me.

“This man and his sisters, Mary and Martha—”

“Mary and Martha of Bethany?” I said.

“Yes, I believe they were all from Bethany.”

“I think I may know those women,” I told her. “Please go on.”

“This man, their brother Lazarus, had been dead and in the tomb for
four
days. But Jesus—your son—had men open up the tomb, and then he spoke some words. Oh dear, I wanted to remember them just right for you.”

“Do not worry,” I assured her. “Just tell me the story.”

“I remember!” Rachel’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Jesus told this other Mary that he was the life and, let me think . . . yes, and that he was the resurrection and that if anyone believed in him, even if that person was dead, that person would not stay dead. And that if anyone who was still alive believed in him, that person would never die.”

“How can that be?” Myra said. “To never die?”

I just shook my head, unsure of the meaning myself. “Is that all of the story, Rachel?”

“No, no. There is much more! The men opened the tomb where this man Lazarus had been laid out for four days. And then Jesus called out to the dead man, telling him to come out!”

I just stared at Rachel. “And what?” I demanded. “What happened?”

“The dead man came to life, and Jesus told his friends to remove the grave cloths.”

I sank to the stone bench that is next to the well. “Oh my.”

Myra and Rachel sat down on either side of me. “Is it not amazing?” Myra said.

I nodded.

“Do you think it is true, Mary?” Rachel asked.

I studied her, wondering if her sources, these cousins of hers, were reliable. “You are the one who told us this story. What do you think?”

“Oh yes. I do believe it is true that the man Lazarus rose from the dead. But those other words, the ones Jesus said, that if we believe in him we will not die. Do you think that can possibly be true?”

I took in a deep breath and considered this for a long moment and finally said, “I think if that is what the Son of God said, then it must be true. But I will admit that it sounds fantastic to my ears.”

And I must admit that it still sounds fantastic to my ears. Of course, I know now that Jesus did indeed resurrect Lazarus from the dead. I have even met the man, and Lazarus’s own sister Mary told me the whole story herself, and in much more detail than Rachel. But it is the middle of this night now, and all I know is this darkness and this silence and that most of the world is asleep, and I know that my son still lies in his tomb, and when morning comes, it will have been three days.

Suddenly I wonder if those words he spoke might possibly be true. First of all, if Jesus truly is the resurrection and the life, then how can he remain dead? And if he is not dead, then why has he not revealed himself to his dearest friends? I do not mean myself, of course. I am only his earthly mother and no one special. But what about John and Simon Peter and Andrew and James and all the others? What about the women like the other Marys, Susanna, Joanna, and the rest who have served him so faithfully? Why would Jesus allow them all to suffer like this if he was truly alive? It makes no sense.

How I long for sleep now. To escape these questions that are hammering inside of my head.
Dear Lord, please help me make it through this night.

Somehow, blessedly, I find sleep—a quiet and dreamless sleep. And when I awaken I know it is almost morning. The sky is still dark as slate, but I sense that morning is coming. I feel it in my aching bones. The house is still, and no one else is stirring as I slip quietly outside to the terrace to await the morning. I am still weary, and I still feel that I am a hundred years old as I sit on a weathered wooden bench and wait.
Wait for what?
I wonder. Perhaps I am only waiting for the dawn. And when the first light comes, I must decide what I will do next. I think it is time to return to my family, and then, like a dog who has been whipped, I will slink like a shadow back to Nazareth with them. I only hope they do not ask me too many questions. For I fear that I have no answers for them.

How I miss him! My broken heart aches with missing him. And, yes, I must be honest and say that I do miss him as my son, but I miss him as my Lord and Savior even more. How I long to see him again. Not suffering and in pain this time, but smiling and happy. The way I saw him only a week ago.

It was the Sunday before Passover, and Jerusalem was bursting with travelers. We had only just arrived ourselves when we heard that the king would soon be entering the city gates.

“What king is this?” I asked a woman who was holding a palm frond in her hand. “Who is it that you are expecting?”

“The king of Israel!” she shouted with joy.

“Do you mean Jesus?” I asked her.

“Of course!” she exclaimed. “Who else could it be?”

“You are not going to stay for this little show, are you, Mother?” James’s voice bore an unmistakable note of disdain.

I nodded. “I most certainly am.”

And so my children went on their way, leaving me to stand with the festive crowd that awaited their king’s entry into Jerusalem. I stood and waved a palm frond as I saw the small processional passing through. I smiled to myself to note that my son was humbly seated on a young white donkey, just as the prophets of old had predicted. People threw down their outer garments and palm branches to carpet the road as he slowly made his way up to the city gates. Everyone was shouting, saying things like “Hosanna!” or “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” It reminded me of the stories I had heard of King David. Only this was Jesus entering Jerusalem!

When Jesus was close enough that I could actually glimpse his face, I could see that he was smiling as he waved at the people. But I also saw great sadness in his eyes. I am not sure anyone else could make it out, but I like to think that, as his mother, I saw it there. To me, it was unmistakable. And despite the joyful greetings and the great sense of expectation in the air, it was as if a dark cloud passed over my soul in that moment, as if I knew this was the beginning of the end.

It makes my head spin to think how quickly those same people turned against my son. Within the week, those same people who had cheered him on as king of Israel were suddenly shouting for him to be crucified. It was unbelievable. Like a horrible dream.

My eyes search out into the east, longing for the sun to make its appearance and drive away this darkness. I can see people beginning to stir now. A pair of women are heading down the street below, probably going to the well. I hear the crowing of a sleepy rooster, and I know it will not be long until daybreak. I long for the sun to come out and warm my weary old bones. But not as much as I long for my Lord. I ache with longing for him.

I pull my cloak more tightly around my shoulders as I remember the last time I saw him smile. I am talking about a real smile, where even his eyes were lit with happiness. The kind of smile he often had as a young child when he had made some new discovery, like catching a frog in midair as it hopped, or seeing the shape of a horse in the clouds, or spotting the first bright green sprout of a bean plant poking its head through the dark spring soil.

Ironically, the last time I saw him smile was on the day of his arrest. Of course, at the time I had no idea he was about to be arrested or to go through such unimaginable torture. To me, it was simply a happy and sunny day. We were well into Passover celebrations by then, and it was the first day of the Feast of Unleavened Bread. I had just been to the market for fresh herbs and was heading back to where my family was staying.

I could hear a boisterous crowd of people moving through the streets behind me, and I naturally thought they might be following Jesus. So I slowed my pace, waiting for them to catch up with me before I turned around to see.

It was always easy to pick my son out of a group, for he is nearly a head taller than most men—and, of course, his face is familiar to me. Surrounded by his disciples, as well as other devoted followers, he paused when he noticed me, and, to my surprise, he looked directly at me.

Thrilled to see him, I smiled and waved, but I continued to walk. I did not want to interrupt Jesus and his disciples on their way, for I suspected they had important matters to attend to. Then suddenly I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder and turned around to see my own son smiling down on me. Oh, what a smile! I stood there for a moment just basking in its warmth. Then he leaned down and whispered in my ear.

“It was your pure heart,” he said.

I looked at him curiously.

“The reason my heavenly Father chose you.” Then he stooped to pick up something off of the street—how he even noticed it down there was beyond me. But he held it up for me to see. A tiny seed. He smiled again, then placed it in my open palm. “Take good care of it, Mother.” And then he continued on his way.

With happy tears in my eyes, I attempted to examine the tiny seed but was unable to identify it. But that is not so unusual. Foreign seeds are often transported when so many travelers from faraway places pass through Jerusalem. Seeds can ride into town stuck in a camel’s coat, coming from as far off as Egypt or even Greece. Wherever this mystery seed had come from, I treasured it as I wrapped it in a scrap of soft linen and then tucked it into the pocket I still have sewn into my tunic for just such a purpose.

With all that has happened these last few days, I had nearly forgotten that seed, although I will never forget my son’s smile or his words when he gave it to me. Now, worried that I may have lost it, I slip my hand into my secret pocket to see if it is still there. I am relieved to feel its tiny bulge through the fine linen that still surrounds it.

Suddenly, just as the sky grows lighter with the promise of an imminent sunrise, I remember something about seeds. Something I know to be a fact. And the power of its truth almost takes my breath away.

Unless a seed dies, it cannot yield fruit. To bring forth life, there must first be death—or rather, what
appears
to be death. For, you see, only part of the seed dies—only its hard exterior shell. It is the container of the secret of life that actually dies. It may seem like the seed is dead as it sleeps in darkness, and if you dug it up and examined it closely, you would most certainly believe it was dead. But it is very much alive. For only the outer part of the seed dies—and that is so the rest of it can live. In due time the miraculous living part comes forth—in essence, life emerges from death!

As surely as I know this as a gardener, I know now, within the depths of my spirit, that God’s Son must rise up again. I know that they have only killed the exterior shell, that which housed God’s spirit, the same spirit that remains very much alive in him. I know that in due time, like a seedling, Jesus will burst forth and his life will continue forever—because he is God’s Son.

But can I explain this to anyone? I am not sure. Maybe this revelation is just for me. Even so, I thank God the Father and I praise him, for I know that he knows what he is up to. And I will trust that in due time my son—rather God’s Son—will be alive and lifted up and exalted!

At long last the sun is up. As I stand and stretch my weary limbs, soaking in the welcome warmth and light, I think this morning is just the sort of morning when life should spring forth out of death. I feel unexplainably at peace.

16

WHEN I GO BACK into the house, others are awake and some of the men are discussing their plans. Unwilling to interrupt them, I wait in the shadows of the doorway.

“It is the third day.” John’s voice has the distinct ring of hope in it.

“What difference does that make?” Thomas stands at the west window, arms crossed over his chest as he looks outside with a dismal expression. “Jesus is dead.”

“But Jesus told us about this. Do you not remember? He said he would die and then rise after three days,” John tells him.

“It is over,” Thomas says, turning to face John. “Cannot you see that? Everyone is going home now. You should go home too.”

“You are wrong, Thomas,” Simon Peter says, suddenly rising to his feet. “I agree with John. Jesus did say he would rise in three days, and we have no reason to doubt him.” Then Peter notices me in the doorway. “You are his mother, what do you think?”