The Third Day

 Numb.

How else do I describe how I feel?

After three days of tears, nightmares, and incoherent thoughts, I’m surprised I can even do this. After experiencing all I did, I’m still expected to celebrate Pesach, Matzah, and Bikkurim? Impossible. I wasn’t hungry. No one was hungry. It was all perfunctory. It should have had meaning, but, no, it had none. My loss—our loss—is too great.

Feasts are to bring one closer to HaShem. Yet wasn’t I already close to him? He was here. Physical. Tangible. But now? After what happened, my Jewishness failed me. I do not feel “passed over.” I feel like I received a direct hit. When the Pascal shofar blew, he said, “It is finished.” My heart melted at that very moment. I have not recovered.

It’s now just after sunrise on the first day of the week. The Romans never had a knack on timing. Or, maybe they did. Didn’t this act create the greatest suffering for all involved? Not only for him. Oh, most definitely for him. It was hard for me to watch, to bear, to endure. I can’t even imagine how he did. Again, Rome exacted the harshest punishment on us. My Jewishness, rather than helping, hindered. No time to pay my respects to this one who had done so much for me. I owe my very life to him. He brought me from the very depths of Sheol into the light—his light. I owe him more than forcefully having to ignore him at such a critical moment. Rome had no concern for our suffering. They had the crucifixion on Pesach and the day of preparation for Matzah, a day we treat as a special Sabbath. This forced our hand to not care for the body of the one who had taken care of us. Then came the weekly Sabbath. Again, our Jewishness left us in despair and away from performing our desire to honor this one who deserves our honor more than anyone. My respect to this one who gave me more respect than anyone else on earth has been delayed for three days. I am heartbroken, tired, weary, and worn. But this day, I will fulfil my duty, my obligation, my honor.

Other women are with me. No one can be more grieved than Mary, his mother. I know how broken my heart is. I can’t imagine hers. It must be inconsolable. I know mine is. I walk behind the others carrying an armload of spices. I know Joseph had spices and used them, but I need to show honor to him as well. The other women with me feel the same. Yet, I also dread doing this after three days. To add spices, some of the linen will have to be loosened to add them—not to mention the odor of decay. I saw how bloody his body was. The linen Joseph and Nicodemus used will likely be stuck to his body, unyielding to be released from the spots where blood oozed from his body, which were many. So many. I will be strong. I must be strong. I will pay honor to this one who loved me so.

We are all still grieving. Yet, I no longer weep. I can’t weep even though my heart feels like it is broken and seeping. Three days of weeping has exhausted my tears, but not my grief. The grief has only intensified even though my tears have dried up. No one is talking, except for Salome who is trying to comfort mother Mary. She was not only the mother to our Messiah alone, but to us all. She treated all his followers as her children. Indeed, she is most precious. Seeing her heart breaking continues to break mine.

One of the women in front of me stops suddenly and I almost walk into her. “The stone!” she exclaims. “How will we roll the stone away? All the men stayed in the city.”

I place my hand on her shoulder. “We will just convince one of the guards to roll the stone away for us,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “Speak to a Roman! I . . . I can’t.”

“Oh, I can,” I tell her. “I’ve done it before.” My cheeks redden. “Too many times, I’m afraid,” I say in almost a whisper.

As only she can, Mother Mary says, “HaShem will help us.”

Her words suffice everyone, and we continue on. Yet, I really didn’t want to speak to a Roman soldier. Remembrance of their touch I had received before almost put me in a panicked state. Mother’s words calm me. Yes, HaShem will be with us. After all, HaShem would want us to honor this one who honored Him as well.

Talk again subsides and I get lost in my thoughts until, again, I almost run into those in front of me. I look up and gasp. The stone is not just rolled away, but off its track! We all stand there, looking at each other in astonishment.

It then strikes me. The soldiers. They are nowhere to be seen. It is almost like each one of us wait for the other to make the first move. I take a deep breath and step forward. “I’ll investigate,” I say.

I slowly walk toward the tomb. I can feel my heart begin to pound and begin to hear my heartrate in my ears. I force myself to breathe. Once I get to where the stone lay off its track, I lay the spices in my arms down at that spot, stand, and straighten my clothes, biding time, and force my nerves to allow me to enter. The only thing I can think of is that someone stole his body. I can barely fathom such an act. If so, how can I ever show my respects?

I slowly enter. It takes time for my eyes to adjust. Before I even get all the way in, I see his body gone! I gasp as my hand goes to my mouth. But his shroud is still there. The blood stains are undeniable. I stiffen in fear and panic. I cannot force myself to go farther. I turn and run out of the tomb and into the garden.

I know my actions surprise my friends, but I am so overcome, I cannot stop and say anything. I don’t even observe what the other women do. I know they enter, but I become so enwrapped in my own sorrow, it doesn’t even occur to me to think of theirs. Very selfish, I know. But I am so overwhelmed.

I rest my hands on a nearby stone to steady myself. The beauty of this garden is undeniable, but its beauty seems to mock my sorrow. This is supposed to be a place of contemplative remembrance, but now, even that is stolen from me. I see a gardener tending to some of the flowers. He does not seem to notice me, and I am relieved as I just want to be alone. In the distance, I can still see three crosses erect and vacant. A flood of horrific memories flood over me: the jeering crowds, the taunting by the supposedly “righteous” priests, and his blood dripping from his body onto the ground. So many wounds; so much blood. I close my eyes and sob. I still can’t form tears. They are still dried up, but not my sorrow. The event, the timing, his burial—all at inconvenient times that seem to mock me. Now, the ultimate mocking. His body itself is gone so I cannot pay any respect at all. It is almost too much. I sink to my knees. My legs can no longer sustain me.

After a time, I realize that I need to tell the others. Strength comes back to my legs, and I run. My sorrow fuels my strength. Before I get very far, I see Peter and John running toward me. They stop and take my arms.

“Mary,” Peter says. “What did you see?”

I can only shake my head and barely get the words out, “They have taken him. I don’t know where he is.”

Both nod and then run on. I debate to go on or return. I decide to return to see what Peter and John will do. Yet, my running is over. I walk. By the time I arrive back, Peter and John are gone. I also know I must keep my commitment and go into the tomb. I had told Mother Mary I would, so I need to keep my word. I know they, Peter, and John have already entered, but while perfunctory, I must keep my commitment. As I slowly enter, I become overwhelmed with emotion all over again and begin to sob. This time, tears come. Yet, seeing two people dressed in white startles me at first, but their voices are so kind. “Why are you crying?” they ask.

I put my hands over my face and weep. “They have taken him away and I don’t know where.” My mind is so frazzled I don’t even question why two individuals are inside the tomb.

I then hear someone behind me outside the tomb speak. “Why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”

I assume this to be the gardener I had seen before. He evidently finally noticed that I am here. I step out of the tomb. My eyes are so wet with tears now, I can’t really focus. “Please, sir. If you have moved his body, please tell me.”

I then hear him speak my name: “Mary.” My heart stops. It’s him! Even without being able to focus my eyes due to the tears, I know this voice. I would know this voice anywhere. He said my name so many times before. I am so overcome I fall to my knees. I wipe my eyes and reach out my hands. “My Lord,” I say. I see him before me. How is this possible? I don’t know and at this moment, I don’t care. He is here!

“Do not touch me yet,” he says. “Go tell my disciples I am ascending to my Father, their Father and God as well.”

At once I run to do his bidding. I had come to respect and honor him. Rather than anointing his body, I am doing his bidding instead. This is how I honor him: by doing his bidding. Three days of sorrow has turned into joy. Suddenly, the day looks bright and vibrant. My heart is again about to burst, but this time with joy—pure joy. The one I had grown to know and love and who knew and loved me back was with me again. For us again. I can’t wait to tell the others.

Their three days of morning are over.

Resurrection day has come!

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Visit Books & Words to Inspire by Randy C. Dockens