“You are weary, Mary,” she says to me as she takes my arm and leads me up into her house. “Come and see your room, rest until suppertime, and then we will talk.”
For the first time I am actually thankful for this kind of attention. For it is true, I am weary. But at least we are here now. And I know that with good rest among good friends, I will be ready for whatever is to happen next. I only hope it will involve my Lord. For, oh, how my heart aches to see him one more time!
20
“IT SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE THAT it has been forty days since the Son of Man rose from the dead,” Mary of Magdala says.
“How quickly it is passed,” Martha agrees as a servant fills our wine cups.
“Yet so much has happened,” Susanna says.
It is our first evening in Bethany, and we are gathered at Mary and Martha’s fine dinner table. There are many beautiful cushions for us to recline upon. Some have fabric of embroidered silk. Numerous lovely serving dishes grace the table. The wine decanter looks as if it could be gold. But then I am no expert in such things.
Lazarus has gone somewhere with the men this evening, but there is a feeling of enthusiasm and hopeful anticipation among the women. Sounds of happy conversation and feminine laughter fill the air like musical instruments that are tuning up for an important performance. I am impressed with how well my sister Sarah fits in with these women of influence. This is probably because she was married to a prosperous merchant and is much more comfortable with material wealth than I shall ever be. But I am pleased to see her interacting with these lovely women with such ease. And I can see they like Jesus’s aunt.
As usual, the food and service is much too fine for me, but, as usual, I keep these thoughts to myself. More and more I think I am a very plain woman with very plain tastes and simple needs. Even so, I tell myself to remember these times. Such memories will provide me with much amusement when I am back in my humble home, dining on bread and cucumbers for my supper.
Although I rested before dinner, I still feel tired, and I excuse myself early and turn in before the others. It has not escaped my attention that I am among the oldest of this group of women. And, until now, I thought I managed to keep up rather well. But then I am of hardworking peasant stock, the kind of people who can toil in the fields for long hours without breaks. I should be able to keep up. But tonight I am as weary as a stone and hope to sleep just as soundly.
The next day there is excitement in the air. The disciples have returned after being with Jesus, and their faces are alight with joy. John takes me aside and describes what has happened. “It was wonderful, Mother,” he begins. “He took us to the mountain with him, and once we were there he began to speak.”
“What did he say?” I ask, hungry for more words of life.
“First he reminded us of how he once said that John baptized with water but that he would baptize with fire.”
“Yes, I remember those words, but I never understood their meaning.”
“The Lord said it would not be many days from now.”
“That is why he has called us here to meet with him?” I ask, once again hoping I will still have the chance to see my Lord with my own eyes.
“Yes. After Jesus told us that, one of the men asked him if he would restore the kingdom of Israel now.”
I nod. This does not surprise me. “What did the Lord say?”
“He said it is not for us to know these things. He said they are in the Father’s timing and his authority.”
“Yes. That sounds right.”
“He also said that after the Holy Spirit comes we will all be empowered to be his witnesses, starting in Jerusalem, then throughout Judea and Samaria, and finally to the ends of the earth.”
“The ends of the earth.” I marvel at this. That sounds much bigger than just our nation of Israel.
“But then the most startling thing happened, Mother,” John continues. “Jesus was standing on the ground, right in our midst, and then he began to lift up, straight up into the sky.”
“Oh my!”
“And we all just stood there gaping at him. Some of us had our mouths hanging wide open. Then our Lord called down to us and said, ‘Why are you looking into the sky like that? For it is the same way I go into heaven now that I will come back to you one day.’”
“Does that mean he is gone?” I ask, feeling dismayed by this possibility.
“I do not know for sure.”
“Of course,” I tell him. “How could you? Only the Father knows these things.”
While John’s news is truly wonderful, I still feel a bit disappointed that I have not yet seen the Lord. I know that I am only a poor woman from Nazareth and that the Lord has much more important affairs to tend to than someone as insignificant as me. But I secretly long to see him just the same. Only now, after hearing how he was lifted up into the heavens, well, I am afraid that perhaps he has left us for good. Still, I remind myself that this is not for me to concern myself with. The Lord knows what he is doing. All I must do is trust him. And I believe I can do that.
By the next day the men have located a large upper-story room where all of us will gather to wait for his coming. We are full of excitement and great expectation as we prepare to go and join them there. Some of the disciples say Jesus is not going to come to this place himself but that he is simply going to send his helper—the Holy Spirit—that we may be empowered to be his ministers. Others still believe that Jesus is coming again. I find it somewhat amusing that even now, after all we have seen and heard, his disciples still cannot seem to agree on much. Well, other than that Jesus is the Son of God. I suppose that is enough.
I go with the women into Jerusalem, and soon we find the right place and climb up the stairs until we reach the upper story. It is a spacious room with columns and high ceilings, but it quickly fills with dozens of Jesus’s followers. During our first day we are all very enthused, watching and waiting and expecting a miracle. My zeal is slightly dampened by the fact that none of my children from Nazareth have arrived yet. I am concerned that James may have changed his mind, or perhaps he will not get here in time.
I slip off to a corner in the back of the room, and there I bow my head and pray. “Dear Lord,” I whisper, “I beg you, please, ensure that your brother James, and perhaps some of your other relatives, are able to get here soon, and in time so that they too might see you and receive your Holy Spirit. Amen.”
I continue this prayer and others like it several times into the night and during the following two days, feeling a mixture of relief and impatience, as we all continue to wait and wait and wait. Then, just before sundown of the third day, my sons arrive. Not only James, but Joses and Simon and Judas have come as well! I run to greet them and hug each of them to my heart, thanking Jehovah for bringing them to us.
Then I take these men straight to John, introducing them as if they are all related as brothers. Fortunately, my own sons do not seem offended by this. John takes them around the room and introduces them to the other ten disciples. It is not long before my sons are gathered around Simon Peter and John, listening to these two dear men retelling some of the things they have seen and heard during these past three years, and especially lately. The other disciples inject bits and pieces here and there, and in the course of the next few days, my four sons are being thoroughly educated into their half brother’s incredible ministry.
Day turns into night turns into day, and yet we continue to wait. How long will it take? I must admit that I even feel brief gusts of doubt. What if Jesus’s disciples did not hear him quite right? Or what if we are in the wrong place? I know this is foolishness, but it is only because I am so tired of waiting. I feel that I have been waiting my whole life. Still, I sit in my corner and try to remain faithful. Waiting, waiting, waiting . . .
How long must we wait, Lord? We have been up here in this room for more than a week now. I think it is ten days altogether. In some ways it reminds me of that other time of waiting. Certainly,
that was a much darker time, a more hopeless time, and only three days. Even so, this is beginning to feel like eternity to me. I sit quietly in my corner in the back of the room, where I have remained most of the time, as we continue to wait. All of our needs have been graciously seen to by servants that Martha of Bethany and Mary of Magdala have made arrangements for. Food and water is carried up. We have bedding to sleep on. And here we have stayed day after day.
I realize during this confinement that I am unaccustomed to being indoors for such extended periods. I am a woman who needs the blue sky overhead and the dusty earth beneath my feet. But, other than to tend to my body’s most basic needs, I refuse to leave this stuffy room for long. I am too worried that I might miss him while I am out. And I could not bear to miss him again.
I tell no one of this, but I have grown weary, very weary, during these past two days. I am weary from travel, weary from waiting, weary with this earthly life altogether. I am beginning to think I am a very old woman, too old for such things. Perhaps it is time for me to go home to Nazareth and then to lay my body down next to my dear Joseph, beneath the ground. That is how weary I am right now. But I sense that I am not the only one. The room has been heavy with quietness today. I think everyone is weary of waiting.
Suddenly there is a change. I think we all feel it, for it seems that instantly and simultaneously everyone comes to attention. Some rise to their feet, and I discover that I too am standing, although I do not recall getting up. And then a blast of wind bursts into the room, almost like a whirlwind or a small tornado, although that seems impossible. With the howling of the wind in my ears, and with dust and debris and something else—is it light?—whirling around, it seems that everyone in the room has disappeared—or are they obscured?—except for me, and I feel that I stand all alone with this loud rushing in my ears, and a feeling of energy—or is it fire?—surges through my head clear down to my toes! It is unlike anything I have ever experienced! And yet it is familiar. In some ways it is like that night so long ago when God’s Spirit came upon me and I conceived his son. But so much more so!
I stand with my hands and face lifted to the heavens, worshiping God, fully expecting to be lifted and swept away with this wind. I am hoping I will be taken up in the same manner that my Lord has gone before me. And then, as suddenly as it began, it is over.
I look around and am surprised to see that everyone else is still here. But I know that nothing will ever be the same. Their faces look as astonished as I feel. But there is something more—each face has an expression of pure ecstasy—as if they have looked into the soul of God. Indeed, that is how I feel.
Before long some of the disciples and others are beginning to speak in foreign languages, and many other astounding things are happening, and miracles too. It is wonderful and incredible, and yet I have this strong sense that it is time for me to go. It is not a negative feeling, not as if I want to leave these people I love so dearly, but simply a knowledge within me—maybe it is the Holy Spirit, the Helper. But somehow I know deep inside that it is time for me to leave.
With so much activity and excitement in this room, no one notices as I slip out the back door and head down into the street below. I walk quietly with my head slightly bowed as I consider the amazing thing that has just happened to me. My heart is so full! Full to the point of overflowing. And I realize now that I no longer need to see the Lord with my own eyes. I realize that he, by the power of his Holy Spirit, is living inside me now. I do not know how, but somehow I know this without doubt. Just as assuredly as I knew that the Son of God lived within my womb more than thirty-three years ago, I know that the Son of God lives here now. Only more so.
I head for the city gates, thinking I will first go to the house in Bethany, where I will gather my things, and then I will prepare to leave. Just as I am outside of the city, I notice someone is walking beside me. An old man, I think, for his gait is slow and smooth, but I continue to walk, keeping my head down as I ponder all these things and make my plans.
“Where are you going?” the stranger asks.
Surprised that he is addressing me, I glance at him, then simply say, “I am going to Nazareth.”
“Why are you going to Nazareth?” he asks.
Unsure of the answer, I reach up and touch my little secret seed pocket, checking to see if my seed is still there. “To plant seeds,” I tell the man, as if that should make sense.
“Is that all?” he asks.
Suddenly I wonder why this man is so curious about me, but I answer him anyway. “And then I am going to harvest.”
I am sure this stranger must think I am crazy if I plan to harvest when it is still springtime. So I turn and study his face to determine if he is confused by my answer. But he just smiles.
And that is when I know. He is no stranger. But before I can say anything, before I can fall upon my knees and thank him and worship him, he is gone. In a glorious flash of pure golden light, he vanishes. But his smile remains with me. Such a smile. And that is not all. He remains with me as well, and I know that wherever he leads, that is where I will go. But right now he is leading me back to Nazareth to plant seeds and then to harvest.
The Beginning
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Melody Carlson is the award-winning, prolific author of more than two hundred books of fiction, nonfiction, and gift books, including The Christmas Bus and Angels in the Snow. Among her many awards for excellence in writing are the Gold Medallion and a Romance Writers of America Rita Award. She lives in Oregon.
© 2005, 2012 by Melody Carlson
Published by StoneHouse Ink
Boise ID 83713
www.StoneHouseInk.net
First Paperback Edition published 2007
Second printing, February 2007
First eBook Edition 2012
Previously published under the title Three Days
Published in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
All Scripture is the author’s paraphrase.
StoneHouse Ink
Table of Contents
Title page
Dedication
Preface
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
About the Author
Copyright Information
Table of Contents
Title page
Dedication
Preface
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
About the Author
Copyright Information
Three Days: A Mother's Story Page 13