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?”
“I have no reason to doubt him.”
John comes to me. “Mother,” he says, reaching to take my hands in his. It warms me to hear how he has taken my son’s words to his heart. “Where have you been this morning?”
“On the rooftop,” I tell him. “Waiting for the sun to rise.”
“So, tell me, do you really believe it is possible?”
I nod and smile. “Where are the women?”
“The two Marys have already gone to the tomb,” he says. “They left before the sun came up. They’re taking the spices to anoint the body.”
I realize now that they must have been the women I saw down in the street earlier. A part of me wishes I had recognized them and gone out to join them. But another part of me realizes I do not need to go now. For I know in my heart that the Son of God has already risen. I feel it deep within me—the way a mother can sense these things. Noticing that the water jug for the house is nearly empty, I pick it up and begin to go outside but am stopped by John.
“Someone else can do that, Mother,” he says.
“I want to do it.”
“But Peter and I are going to the tomb now,” John tells me. “Do you want to come along?”
“No,” I say. “I will wait here.”
My heart is at peace as I go down to the well for water. I feel it is my turn to serve, and I am pleased to do so. When I return, the house is quiet and no one seems to be around. So I busy myself with food preparations. I am not sure about the men, but I suspect that the two Marys took no time to eat before they left. As I put together some flat bread and fruit and yogurt for a simple morning meal, I think how generous and kind it is for the women to want to care for Jesus’s body first thing today. I felt so bad when we left him there so hastily, due to the coming Sabbath. I fretted over how ill prepared he was for burial. We, especially the women, felt that our Lord deserved much better than that.
But now I am hoping that the women’s fragrant oils and preserving spices will be unnecessary. I am hoping that the Son of God will smell like the sweet breath of heaven today. My heart flutters with anticipation as I slice the bread, and I nervously glance out the window to see that it is now midmorning. Still no one has returned.
How I wonder what they will find at the tomb. Or maybe it is too soon for the Son of God to rise. Perhaps I should have gone with them too. But, no, I reassure myself. Let them make this discovery on their own, for they are his closest friends. I am only his mother. Besides, this mother’s heart is convinced. I know he lives.
Even so, I am unsure what will happen next. Will Jesus set up an earthly empire here in Jerusalem? That seems unlikely, since he has always said his kingdom is in heaven with the Father. So what then? What comes next?
I manage to eat a small piece of bread along with a few bites of yogurt. Now I am pacing, wondering what is happening at the tomb, and suddenly I am tempted to go up there myself. But I hear voices—women’s voices—and they are laughing and calling out my name.
“Mary! Mary!” I hear them call. Now they are in the room, and just one look at their faces and I know! I know without a shadow of doubt.
“He is alive!” I say.
“Yes!” Mary of Magdala claps her hands with joy. “He lives!”
“He is risen!” cries Mary, the mother of James and Salome.
Then we hug each other and dance and shout out praises to Jehovah until we all have tears of joy streaming down our faces.
“Sit and eat,” I finally insist, feeling slightly breathless and almost dizzy. “Tell me everything—from start to finish!”
“At first I was so frightened,” Mary of Magdala says as she sits at the place I have set for her. “As we were walking we felt the earth tremble and shake. We were still a ways from the tomb, and it reminded me of the day at the cross when the earth quaked and groaned. Worried that something was wrong, I ran on ahead to see what was happening. But when I reached the tomb, I could see that the stone had been rolled away, and the soldiers were nowhere in sight. And the tomb was empty!”
“I was hurrying as fast as I could to join her,” the other Mary adds. “But my old legs are not as spry as hers.”
“I immediately thought someone had stolen his body,” Mary says as she breaks a piece of bread. “I could not understand how the tomb could be empty. The cloth we had wrapped him in was still there, but his body was gone. That is when I began to cry. But then I saw a man. At first I thought he was only a gardener, but then I noticed his brilliant white clothing. ‘Where have they taken my Lord?’ I asked him.” Mary pauses to catch her breath and to take a bite of bread.
Mary chews and swallows, then continues. “He said, ‘Why do you seek the living among the dead?’”
I clap my hands with joy at this. “Who was this man?” I ask her. “Who said this to you?”
“I was not sure. But I knew he was holy, I thought maybe an angel or maybe even our Lord, but all I could do was fall down on my knees . . . I was afraid to look into his face.”
“That is when I arrived,” the other Mary says. “And when I saw this man in glorious shining garments, I fell to my knees as well.”
“Then he spoke again,” Mary says. “‘He is not here,’ he told us, ‘He has risen!’”
“Imagine,” the other Mary says, “our joy at hearing that!”
“Then he continued. He said, ‘Do you not remember what he told you—how the Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again?’”
“And that is when we remembered those words,” the other Mary says. “That is when it all became clear. Then he told us to come back and tell the others the good news.”
“Even so,” Mary says. “It was so hard to believe. And suddenly the man was gone and we were all alone in the tomb.” She glanced at the other Mary and frowned slightly. “And that is when Mary began to wonder if we had imagined the whole thing.”
“I am sorry,” the other Mary says. “But it was so astounding. And I was so stunned, I began to worry that it was not real.”
“Even so, we headed back here,” Mary says. “We were eager to tell the others—to see what they would say. And then we met John and Peter on the road, and I began babbling to them, carrying on like a madwoman, I am sure.” Mary’s eyes are wide as she uses her hands as a dramatic expression. “I was talking too fast, trying to say too much, and I am afraid they thought my demons had come back and taken control of me again.” She throws back her head and laughs. “But we finally made them understand. We both assured them that the tomb was truly empty and that the man there told us Jesus had risen.”
“You should have seen those two take off,” the other Mary says. “They went running toward the tomb like someone had lit their tails on fire.”
“And then we came back here to tell the others.” Mary looks around as if she has only just noticed the empty room. “Where is everyone?”
“I think they have given up,” I admit sadly. “Most of them are probably heading for home now.”
“Oh, why could they not wait?” she cries. “Why did not they have faith?”
It is not long before John and Peter return. Both of them are nearly hysterical with joy. “He is alive!” John cries when he sees me. “Jesus has risen from the dead, just as he said—three days and he is risen!” He grabs my hands and dances around the room with me.
“We saw him for ourselves,” Peter says with more hope than he has shown in days. “He met us on the road. At first we did not even recognize him. But then he spoke, and we knew it was our Lord.”
“He told us to come back here and tell the brethren,” John says with excitement. “He told us to meet him in Galilee.”
“Where is everyone?” Peter asks, noticing that the rooms are empty.
“I think they’ve gone home,” I tell the men. “I went out to get water, and when I returned no one was here.”
Thomas walks into the house. His face is still sullen and sad.
“Thomas! Thomas!” John shouts. “He is alive! Our Lord has risen!”
But Thomas looks unconvinced. “How do you know this?”
“We saw him with our own eyes,” Peter says.
“We saw him too,” Mary of Magdala says.
“That is impossible,” Thomas says. “I will not believe it until I see him for myself.”
“But it is true,” John says. “He is—”
“I will not believe it,” Thomas says stubbornly. “Not until I see him myself and actually put my fingers through the nail holes of his hands.”
“Then come with us, dear doubting friend,” John says in a cheerful voice. “Come with us to Galilee. And there you can see him for yourself.”
A couple of the other men trickle in, and they too are astonished at the news, but very quickly the men are packed and ready to travel. And the women are cleaning things up and making plans to follow soon after.
“What about you, Mary?” John asks before they leave. “Are you coming too?”
I shake my head. “Not yet,” I tell him. “But I will join you later.”
He smiles. “Good. Remember that your son, my Lord, has charged me—you are my mother and I am your son. I cannot lose you now.”
“Do not worry,” I assure him. “You will not lose me.”
After the men leave, I help the women pack up the things in the house. They continue to urge me to come with them, but I sense in my spirit that it is not time for me to leave just yet. I sense there is something I must do here before I travel to Galilee.
“Then meet us there,” Mary urges as they pause at the door. “Come and stay with me in my home in Magdala by the Sea of Galilee. You know I will welcome you with open arms.”
So I bid them good-bye and promise to join them in Magdala as soon as I can.
When everyone is gone, I feel strangely lonely. It is as if my family has left me. And it is true, they have become like family to me. Even so, I know there is a chore I must do. I pray as I pack my things. I pray that Jehovah will help me.
I peer this way and that as I go down the streets of Jerusalem. I know I am hoping that I will see him too—that my risen Lord will suddenly appear before me and I will know, with no shadow of doubt, that he is alive. But soon I arrive where my family and my sister Sarah’s family have been staying this past week. I can see that they too are getting ready to go home now. But in a loud voice that is rather unlike me, I call out to them, saying I have an important announcement to make. I can see they are surprised to see that I have returned, but I know I have my relatives’ attention as they stop what they are doing and gather around to listen to me. Feeling nervous and uncertain, I pray that my Lord will help give me the right words.
“There is news,” I begin. “You know by now that my son Jesus was brutally killed just three days ago. He was viciously beaten and then nailed to the cross.” I pause and notice how quiet it gets as their eyes look downward and they solemnly nod. And I see that my Hannah has tears streaming down her cheeks, and even my usually resolute James looks quite distraught. For the first time I think maybe they actually do care about their brother, at least a bit more than they have shown. “And, as you may know, after he died, just before Sabbath, Jesus was laid in a tomb that was donated by a kind stranger.”
“Joseph of Arimathea,” adds my sister Sarah, who was with me that day. “One of the few good men of the Sanhedrin.”
“That is right,” I say. “And soldiers were placed as guards at the tomb, and the doorway was sealed with a large stone.” I pause, and I can see they are growing quite curious as they wait for me to continue. “A miracle has happened today,” I tell them. “Jesus has risen from the dead. The grave could not hold him. Like a seed that is planted into the ground and must die before it comes to life, Jesus, although he was dead, is now very much alive.”
I can tell by their faces that they are completely shocked. But there is a mixture of reactions in the group. Some appear skeptical, some are confused, and a few of the older children look hopeful. Still no one speaks.
“Is it true?” Sarah finally asks in a barely audible voice. “Is he really alive, Mary? Have you actually seen him?”
“I have not seen him for myself. But Peter and James saw him. And some of the other women saw an angel who told them—”
“Then how can you be sure, Mother?” Joses asks. “What if they are deceiving you?”
“Because I know in here,” I tell them in a loud voice, tapping my forefinger upon my chest. “I know in my heart.
I know that Jesus is alive just as much as I know that he is the Son of God and as much as I know that he will rule and reign in God’s kingdom forever. I know.”
No one says anything after that. Sarah pulls me aside. “Have you been to see the tomb yet?”
I shake my head.
“Let us go,” she urges me. “Let us go together.”
And so as the others begin to discuss what I have just told them (and I can hear an argument beginning because some are filled with rigid unbelief while others are unsure), Sarah and I slip away. Hand in hand, with the late morning sun on our faces, we walk toward the tomb.
“Do you remember,” Sarah says as we walk, “when Jesus told everyone not to lay up treasures for themselves here on earth, where moth or rust can destroy or where thieves can break in and steal?”
I nod. “I do remember.”
“And that instead we should lay up for ourselves treasures in heaven, for where our treasure is, there our hearts will be also?”
“Yes. Why do you mention that now?”
“Because if what you say is true, if Jesus really is alive, I want to live my life like that. I want to give all I have to serve him.”
I smile and squeeze her hand. “So do I.” Of course, I know Sarah has much more earthly treasure than I do. Even so, I am happy to give what little I have to do the will of my Lord.
Finally we reach the burial grounds, and it is just as they have said. The stone is rolled away, and the tomb is empty. Sarah and I stand in the empty tomb for a long moment, enveloped in silence and awe. Then we both fall to our knees and quietly worship our King. We both know he has risen.
“What will happen now?” Sarah asks when we finally head back to the city. “Where will Jesus go? Will he rule his people as the king of Israel?”
“I am not sure,” I admit. “I only know that he asked his disciples to meet him in Galilee.”
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