Three days. This day made the third day since Jesus had been taken from them.
How many days would it take for this ache in her soul to disappear as well? Would it ever?
Mary of Magdala clutched the jar of fragrant ointment closer to her middle and fought back the tears that had been so quick to form since Jesus’s arrest. It had been over three years since her life had been changed forever. Hellish years of torment at the hands of seven demons had been ended in a single moment when Jesus called her by name. With just one look, one touch of His hand, it had all changed.
She owed everything to Him, her very life.
How was she supposed to go on without Him now? How were any of them supposed to go on?
If only she could maintain the serene sort of calm that had overtaken Mary, Jesus’s mother. One moment the woman had been hysterical with grief, and the next, fully at peace. But no, all Mary of Magdala could feel was a yawning emptiness and that incessant ache inside.
The first streaks of dawn stretched their fingers over the horizon, but the path before her remained dark. However, she had made the trek to Joseph of Arimathea’s garden tomb enough times over the last three days to know the path by memory.
Once again, she whispered a prayer of thanks for the wealthy Sanhedrin member’s generosity. His offer of his own future tomb had spared Jesus an ignoble mass grave, or worse, a slow decay upon His cross.
Mary rounded the next bend and the shadowed hulk of the man made cave came into view. But wait. No… No. Something was wrong.
The Roman soldiers appointed to guard the tomb—as if they truly thought Jesus’s disciples would be foolish enough to try to steal His body—were nowhere to be seen. And—Mary squinted against the early morning shadows—the heavy gravestone that had taken two strong men to roll into place… was gone.
Mary’s stomach sank with dread. The jar of costly ointment intended for Jesus’s body clattered to the ground, cracking open and anointing the earth with its perfume. “No… What have they done?” The cursed Romans… How much more would they take from them, from her?
The tears returned, stinging her eyes. “Peter and the others must know.” Mary whirled and sprinted back the way she had come, clamoring down the hilled path, through the Gennath Gate into Jerusalem, and down the mountain to the home where several of the disciples were staying—or rather, hiding. Thank Adonai that the early morning hour meant the city streets were not yet crowded.
Her fist pounded against the wooden door as soon as she reached it. Mary’s heart thrashed in her temples. She focused on drawing each breath in, out, in again, trying to settle herself enough to speak.
The door flew open and Peter’s startled face greeted her. “Mary, what on the earth—”
Mary shoved past him, clutching her hand over her heart. She gulped in a breath of air. “The Romans. They—they—”
John rose from his seat next to Jesus’s mother, worry etching the tanned lines of his face. Ima Mary, as she had for the past three days, only sat in tranquil silence, watching with expectant eyes.
Mary turned back to Peter. “The Romans. They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and I don’t know where they have put Him!”
Peter’s face, also deeply tanned from years on the sea, grew pale as death. “What?”
John hurried over. “He’s gone?”
Mary nodded, then shook her head. “Yes—I mean, I think so. The stone was rolled away. I was too distraught to go check inside.”
Peter gripped John’s shoulder. “We must go. Come, John.”
The men raced out the door, the sound of their sandals echoing down the street. Mary turned to find the other Mary watching her. A soft smile lifted the woman’s lips. “Go, see what has become of my son. I shall wait here for the news.”
“But, Ima Mary—”
“Go, child. I will be fine by myself here for a short while. But as soon as you know what has happened, come straight here to me.”
Mary nodded and ducked out the door, shutting it behind her, hoping she had time to catch up with the disciples before they reached the tomb.
The run back to the tomb was much more difficult than the run from it had been. Burning filled her legs and lungs, but Mary refused to pause until she was within sight of the grave.
The sun now rested low in the east, shedding the gentle light of dawn over the earth. Now, she could clearly see that the stone had indeed been rolled away. It had been pushed back up the small inclined track, leaving the opening of Jesus’s grave exposed.
John was standing at the low door, peering within the dark cave. Peter, half a furlong ahead of her, sprinted up behind John and ducked inside the door.
Bracing a hand against the sharp pain in her side, Mary slowed to a walk and stopped just outside the tomb. A weight just as heavy as the gravestone settled in the pit of her stomach. She shook her head and swiped at the tears dripping down her cheeks. He was gone. She knew it before the disciples even emerged, the same anguished expressions on their faces.
“Peter?”
The disciple nodded, not meeting her eye. The man had always been the most confident of them all; at times too confident. Now, in the wake of his denial that he’d even known Jesus… he was a shell of the man he’d once been.
He scrunched his face and swallowed, as if fighting back tears. “There is nothing here for us anymore.” Peter turned away and headed back down the path to Jerusalem.
John, always more tender to the emotions of others, stopped long enough to offer her a firm squeeze on her shoulder and a weak, close-lipped smile. Then he, too, headed back to their hiding place in the city.
Mary settled her back against the wall of the tomb. She could feel the shroud of despair settling over her spirit again, cloaking her mind in darkness. No. No! Please, no. She couldn’t go back to feeling so lost, so without hope. But how could she have hope if the one who gave it to her was dead and gone?
Mary pressed her palms against her face, trying to hold back the emotions waging a war in her heart. But it was no use. No use.
“I cannot go on like this, Jesus. I cannot go back to living in such fear.” Her tears slicked her hands and she moved them away, frustratedly wiping them against her tunic.
Suddenly, she noticed the quiet stillness that permeated the garden around her. Had it always been this quiet, this… peaceful?
Mary pushed away from the outer wall of the tomb, wiping the tears from her face and smoothing the escaped wisps of her hair back under her scarf. She ought to be getting back to Ima Mary now. She should be with her when she learned her son’s body had indeed been stolen from them.
But first…
Mary paused, turned back to the entrance of the tomb.
She ducked inside the opening…
And nearly screamed at what she saw.
Two men dressed in glowing white robes sat on the burial bench where Jesus’s body had lain. One at the head, and one at the foot.
Mary’s mouth opened and closed. She glanced over her shoulder and back at the men. Surely, these men had not been here when Peter and John were within the tomb only moments ago.
“Woman, why are you crying?” The man closest to her offered a gentle smile, tilting his head in question.
Again, her mouth opened and closed. It was a long moment before she was able to say, “They have taken my Lord away. And I don’t know where they have put Him.”
Soft footsteps shuffled behind her.
Mary whirled around, catching herself on the doorframe of the tomb.
A man stood there, garbed in simple, clean clothes and looking not at all as startled to see her as she was to see him. Who was he? Joseph of Arimathea’s gardener perhaps? He held no traces of dirt or sweat on his person, but perhaps he’d not begun his daily work yet.
“Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?” He smiled down at her as if… he already knew the answer. And humor glinted in his brown eyes.
Anger flashed its way past her initial alarm. If this man was the culprit who had stolen her Lord…
She edged her way past him and leveled a glare at his audacious grin. “Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where you have put Him, and I will get Him.” Mary turned towards the path Peter and John had taken back to Jerusalem. If only they had not gone, perhaps they could help her interrogate—
“Mary.”
All the breath rushed from her lungs. At the sound of her name spoken in that voice every single fear, every weight, every shadow vanished. Cast from her heart once more.
Mary clutched a hand to her chest, wonder flooding her soul. Was it…? It couldn’t be… could it?
She turned, slowly, almost afraid to see with her eyes what her ears, her heart, her very soul were telling her.
Jesus was alive.
He stood before her whole, healed, and very much alive. His blessed face split into that wide, joyful grin she had come to expect from Him.
Why He was here, how was He was here—none of it mattered, at least not at this moment. All that mattered was that He was indeed here.
A half laugh, half sob sputtered from her lips. “Teacher!” Mary fell to her knees, reaching out to grasp the hem of his garment.
But His voice stayed her. “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”
Mary could hardly breathe past the joy overwhelming her. The past three days of agony, knowing their Lord was dead and gone, faded into mere memory. All that was left was this joy at His resurrection.
But then a memory, from their last supper with Jesus, rose up in her mind.
“After I have risen, I will go ahead of you into Galilee.”
Jesus had told them this would happen. He had tried to tell them that He would die, but He would rise again. And they had not believed Him. They had all committed their lives to Him, forsaken everything to follow Him, and yet, when it mattered most… they had not followed Him… they had not believed.
Mary wept anew, shaking her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come. What could she even say?
“It is well, Mary.” Jesus’s voice washed over her, banishing her guilt. She lifted her eyes and found His hand reaching out, just shy of touching her head. A large scar marred his wrist where the nail went through. The evidence of the sacrifice He made.
Oh, how many questions she had to ask Him. She only prayed she would have the chance to do so.
“Go.”
Mary looked up further, into His eyes. He was smiling, beaming down at her. “Go, Mary. Tell them I have risen. I will see you again soon.”
She nodded, pushing to her feet, stumbling a few steps backward down the path. He raised His eyebrows at her, then He laughed. That glorious, infectious laugh that enraptured every child that met Him.
Fresh tears, these ones at last happy, flooded her eyes. She laughed in return and spun on her heel to sprint as fast as her feet could carry her back to Jerusalem. They must know. They all must know. Jesus’s body had not been stolen. He was alive and risen, indeed!
Mary laughed and cried, picking up the hem of her tunic to keep from tripping as she ran. She didn’t care that now all of Jerusalem had awakened and those on the streets stared at her as though she’d gone mad. None of it mattered. None of it.
She fell against the front door of the home she’d left less than an hour before. Her fists pounded and pounded, refusing to relent until someone opened it for her. When at last someone did, she didn’t pause to see who it was. Mary charged through the opening, and ran to Ima Mary’s side. She collapsed to her knees and clasped the older woman’s hands, barely registering Peter, John and others drawing close.
Jesus’s mother squeezed Mary’s hands. “What news do you bring us?”
Mary felt a grin stretch wide across her lips. “I have seen the Lord! He has risen.”
Jesus’s mother smiled, too… as if she had already known what the answer would be.
