Three Days: A Mother's Story

by Melody Carlson

  I nodded. “And I have seen him heal cripples too. I once saw a man with legs so twisted he could not even sit up straight. Jesus reached down and touched him, and the man instantly leapt to his feet.”

  “Incredible!” Myra said.

  “My sister who lives in Sepphoris knows a woman a little older than us who had been bleeding for years and years,” Rachel said. “Nothing would stop it, and she was very weak and sick. But she had heard about Jesus, and somehow she pushed her way through a crowd, and when she barely touched your son’s outer garment, she was instantly healed.”

  “So many miracles . . .” I sighed. “How can it be that everyone does not believe in him?”

  Although it was only two rather insignificant women and many small children whom I was able to share these truths with, I was so very thankful for those times. In some ways, they became like my family, making my time at home happier than it had been since Jesus had first left for his ministry.

  When the harvesttime came, my children invited me to travel with them to Jerusalem for the Feast of Tabernacles. Now, unlike Passover, this is not a journey we make every year, but it had not slipped my attention that all my children had seemed more religious and devout lately. I did not feel it was so much their eldest brother’s influence on them, perhaps, as it was a competition of sorts. My sons were reading more and more at the temple, even choosing sections from the old prophets. I had to wonder if they thought they might be able to perform their way into their eldest brother’s acceptance, or perhaps even mine. I could have been wrong, but it felt like they were up to something.

  But when Hannah told me they wanted to invite Jesus to go along with us, I felt certain my children had cooked up some sort of questionable scheme. I tried my best to dissuade them, but it was clear that all my children had already agreed on this plan. They knew Jesus was up near the Sea of Galilee at the time, and James was appointed to go and invite him.

  “He refuses to come,” James said upon his return the following day.

  “Yes, that is like him,” Joses said.

  “He is too good for us,” Hannah added.

  I was forced to depart their company for the quiet solitude of my garden. As I sat on my favorite thinking stone, which was also a praying stone, I had to wonder when my children would ever figure this thing out. Were they always to perceive their brother Jesus as only that—their brother? Would they never see who he really was and accept him as the Son of God?

  Just the same, we traveled to Jerusalem for the Feast of Tabernacles. I guess I hoped I might see Jesus while we were there, although my children were all certain he would not show. In fact, I think they received some kind of satisfaction from their false conclusion. Perhaps it made them feel they were somehow spiritually superior to their brother. I have no idea. But not long after we had arrived, I heard Jesus was indeed in the city. It was Mary of Magdala who told me the good news.

  I ran into her in the marketplace, where we hugged and greeted one another joyfully. I felt as if I was seeing my long-lost relative.

  “Have you seen the Lord?” I asked.

  She smiled. “He is here, Mary. He decided quite suddenly to come. We have all come up with him.”

  I inquired after everyone’s health, and she assured me that all was well. “And your son is well too.”

  “It has been so quiet,” I told her as I inspected a cabbage. “I have missed his public teaching.”

  “So have many. But perhaps it is only for a season.” Then her face grew cloudy. “I know I should not be worried,” she said. “But I have heard rumors . . .”

  “Rumors?”

  “The Sanhedrin are plotting against him. They call him a blasphemer and say he breaks the Sabbath.”

  I nodded. This was not unexpected. Everyone knew that the Sanhedrin, the ruling Jewish council, wielded great power in our country. Even the Romans, who supposedly ruled all the land, allowed the Sanhedrin to police their own people. Other than giving the death penalty, there was little the Sanhedrin could not do. And, according to widespread rumor, most of these men were fiercely opposed to Jesus.

  She sighed. “Of course, it is useless for any of us to warn him.”

  I attempted to smile. “Our Lord will do as he sees fit.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  And so we parted ways. I did not ask her to send a greeting to my son. I knew that was not necessary. I only hoped that before we returned to Nazareth I might simply see him. If only for a glance.

  Jehovah must have been listening to my heart, for the very next day I was blessed to spot my son in the temple. Although, I must admit that my throat tightened with fear when I realized what was transpiring, for it seemed clear that the Sanhedrin were up to something. They were there in great number, almost as if to corner my son. Then suddenly one of the Pharisees thrust a young woman in front of him.

  One look at this woman and I had no doubt what she had been caught doing. She was young and beautiful, but her hair and clothing were disheveled, as if she had just been pulled from bed. I had to wonder whose bed it had been. And where was the man who must have been equally involved in this crime? Naturally, that was not mentioned. But mostly it was her expression—eyes cast downward and a tightness to her mouth—that made her offense indisputable.

  “Teacher,” said the scribe who had assisted the Pharisee in dragging the woman through the temple. “This woman was discovered in the act of adultery.”

  The Pharisee who still held tightly to the poor woman’s arm shoved her to the ground right in front of Jesus. “The law of Moses commands us to stone this woman,” the Pharisee said with a face that was red from exertion. “What do you say?”

  I think I stopped breathing as I watched my son’s face, waiting for him to speak. But he said nothing. He simply knelt down, focusing his attention on the ground at his feet as he traced his fingers through the dust. It was almost as if he could not hear the enraged men as they continued yelling and pestering him about this woman and her crime and what was to be done. I think they actually believed they had entrapped him.

  “According to our laws, she should be stoned!” the red-faced Pharisee yelled.

  Still Jesus continued to scribble in the dust.

  I am sure my heart must have stopped beating by then, and I am surprised I did not collapse completely. Finally Jesus stood, and the Sanhedrin and everyone in the temple grew quiet.

  “Let him who is without sin among you,” he said in a calm but clearly audible voice, “let him be the first one to cast a stone.”

  Slowly they all began to leave. In fact, everyone, even the bystanders, began to leave. Including me. I heard that not one man was left in that area.

  John told me much later that Jesus had then asked the woman about her accusers, and if any of them had condemned her. And when she said no, he told her that he did not condemn her either and that she should go and sin no more.

  Of all the things my son has done, this one has probably touched me the most deeply. Why is that? I cannot help but recall a time, thirty-three years ago, when that woman being shamed could have so easily been me. Now, I was not guilty of adultery or fornication, but to be found pregnant outside of marriage would have made it seem like I was. After seeing that woman humiliated like that, so close to being executed, I finally understood why my mother had been so upset back then. Even though I told her I had been chosen by God, all she could see was that her daughter, if truly pregnant, would be subject not only to the condemnation of the elders but possibly to a stoning as well.

  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 roo
ster, 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.