An oppressive hush had fallen over the household. The heavy weight of it constricted Mary Magdelene’s chest, making even normal breathing difficult. She pressed a hand over her battered heart, her fingers searching for its familiar rhythm. Was she yet alive while her Lord lay dead in a cold tomb? Questions, more questions, all unanswered. The silence of Saturday—this first Shabat after his crucifixion—was nearly unbearable.
Mary wandered through the darkened corridors unable to sleep. Her bare feet padded softly across the cool tile floors of the ornately decorated home. Joanna’s offer of a place for her and the other women to stay was more than kind. The men had scattered, some to the upper room where they’d celebrated Passover, and others to who knows where. This Roman house was a much-appreciated refuge from the dangers lurking in the streets of Jerusalem. No one would think to look for followers of the slain rabbi here.
Normally, an observant Jew would never step foot into a gentile home, no less spend the sabbath in this place. But Jesus had knocked down those traditional barriers when he associated with tax collectors, prostitutes, and other unclean people—like Mary. Seven demons had tormented her mind for years excluding her from synagogue worship. Jesus rid her of them. Who was she to judge anyone as clean or unclean after all he’d done for her?
The soft tinkling of the fountain in the central courtyard drew her in. Mary touched the lush foliage bordering the path while she made her way to the stone bench in the middle. The sweet scent of gardenia mixed with the musky odor of humus beneath her feet. Somewhere in the garden the muted musical tones of chimes jingled in the gentle breeze.
Mary reclined on the bench, its coolness penetrating her thin robe. She raised her face toward the star-filled sky above and sighed. Earlier, she’d sat here with Jesus’ mother, her arms wrapped about her, and they wept together. Presence was the only solace she could offer. All the words and screams of anguish were spent at the foot of the cross the day before. With John and the other women, they watched helplessly as Jesus suffered an excruciating death.
If only she could erase the pictures etched in her memory of her Lord during those horrendous hours of waiting. His body, bruised and torn from the Roman scourging, had been nearly unrecognizable. She had gasped when she first glimpsed Jesus bent beneath the heavy load of the cross. His face was blood streaked with one eye swollen shut but somehow, he picked her out of the crowd.
The compassion in his countenance when he caught her gaze was undeniable. Even in his suffering, he was thinking of Mary and the others. So weak he could barely speak while hanging on the cross, yet he asked John to care for his mother when he was gone.
Mary looked down at her hands folded in her lap and shook her head. None of this made any sense. What were they to do now that Jesus was gone? Every one of them had given up all they’d known before to follow him. Not that her past life counted for much. But others had left their families and their livelihoods. Would James, John, Peter, and Andrew go back to fishing or Matthew back to tax collecting?
She thought not. Everything for them had changed since meeting Jesus. Their lives would never be the same. The silence of Saturday bore down on her once more and she slipped from the bench onto her knees. Mary rested her face in her open palms and cried out to God.
“Abba, Father,” she addressed the Holy One as Jesus had taught them. “What am I to do now? I truly believed Jesus was the Messiah—your son. Was I wrong?”
An inaudible whisper flowed through the foliage of the garden and penetrated her heart. Trust me, Mary.
“Not by my strength, Father, but yours,” she answered. “Show me how to trust.”
She stayed on her knees with her forehead against the stone bench for some time, praying for understanding.
“Trust you for what, Father?”
But there would be no more answers to Mary’s requests tonight. Only the rustling of leaves in the soft breeze disturbed the silence of Saturday.
Hours passed until the twitter of awakening birds caused Mary to raise her head. The eastern sky cast a pink hue into the courtyard. Morning would break soon and she had work to do. She rose slowly to her feet, her legs tingling from long hours on her knees, then left the garden to find Joanna. Mary nearly collided with her friend as she bustled around a corner.
“Oh, there you are dear one.” Joanna raised a hand to Mary’s face. “Are you just rising from bed or could you not sleep like me?”
Mary cast her eyes downward and shook her head. “For the past three days, sleep has evaded me. It’s all too much, you know.”
“Yes, I do.” Joanna answered. “But I have the embalming spices you requested. I found them in the market yesterday. Everything is ready to take to the tomb.”
“Then I must wake the others.” Mary backed away. “Thank you, Joanna, for all you’ve done to help us.”
“I wish I could have done more.” She gave a feeble smile and looked down. “Especially Friday. I-I felt so helpless. What more could I have done for Jesus but stand there and watch him . . . die?” A sob left her throat.
Mary stepped forward to touch Joanna’s shoulder. “We all felt helpless. But now we can honor him by anointing his body properly.”
Joanna nodded and sniffed. “Yes. It’s the right thing to do.”
After Mary awakened the others, they set off toward the tomb at daybreak carrying the spices.
“How will we roll away the stone?” Salome asked. “And the Roman guards. Will they question us?”
Mary had wondered the same thing but hadn’t expressed her thoughts. “I don’t know. However, Abba Father told me in my prayers to trust him. Perhaps this is what he meant.” Salome, Joanna, and the other Mary, who was the mother of James, all nodded and trudged on.
While the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, they entered the garden where Jesus lay. Suddenly, the ground shook beneath their feet and they braced themselves against the ancient olive trees. Mary stifled a scream. Visions of the massive earthquake and darkened skies of Friday crossed her mind. She fell to the ground with the others and covered her head with her arms, waiting for the shaking to stop.
In a matter of minutes, it was over. Mary lifted her face and gazed through the trees toward the tomb. “Look.” She pointed. “The stone is rolled away.”
The women rushed forward together and paused before the opening. Mary glanced around. Where were the Roman guards Pilate had placed here Friday night? Gone. Every last one.
Trust me. Again, the gentle inner voice reassured her. Even within the chaos, God was making a way for them.
A glow of light emanated from the tomb. How strange. Mary inched her way inside with the others close behind. Her eyes opened wide in disbelief. A man dressed in a white robe, dazzling like that of an angel, sat across from where Jesus had been lain . . . but his body was gone. Joanna gasped and dropped the spices she was carrying.
“Do not be afraid,” the man said. “You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look,” he pointed. “There is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.”
None of them needed to hear any more. All the women ran from the tomb in terror while Mary followed in the rear. Tears streamed from her eyes. Raised. Going ahead to Galilee. You will see him there. How could that be?
There was no question in her mind that Jesus was dead. Mary had seen his corpse. No one could live through what the Romans had done to him. No one.
In the confusion, Mary stumbled, falling hard on her knees. She paused there and brushed the dirt from her hands before pushing herself to standing. Pulling up the hem of her robe, she examined her knees. Scraped but not bloody. She let out a slow sigh. What else would happen next?
Behind her, she heard a rustling sound. Even while trembling, she turned to see. Another man stood near the entrance to the tomb with his back to her. Perhaps it was the gardener. Maybe he would know where to find Jesus’ body.
Mary approached the man, tears still blurring her vision, with eyes downcast. When she neared the tomb, he shifted his body to face her. “Woman, why are you crying? Whom are you looking for?”
Still confused, she questioned him. “Sir, if you’ve carried Jesus away, please tell me where you’ve taken him so I can bring him back.”
“Mary!”
The voice. The gentle tone. Could it be true? Mary blinked several times then focused on the face before her and the soft brown eyes. The sadness was gone, replaced by the joy-filled sparkle she remembered from the first time they’d met.
“Teacher!” Mary rushed forward with arms wide. Jesus stopped her from hugging him by raising both palms, still marked with holes from the nails. She fell instead to his pierced feet and kissed them over and over until Jesus touched her shoulder and helped her back to her feet.
Mary knew it was Jesus, but she had to ask. “Is it really you, Lord?”
“Yes, Mary, it is I.” Jesus smiled and nodded. “Remember when I told you I had to die but I would return? Everything happened for your sake, and for all the others from the past and those yet to come. You’ll better understand shortly but for now just trust me and go tell the others. I will see them soon.”
Mary backed away with a wide grin on her face. Joy bubbled up in her heart as she turned then sprinted toward the upper room and the disciples.
Trust me. While in the silence of Saturday, trusting in God’s plan seemed impossible for Mary to grasp. But now, with Jesus’s resurrection, her confusion was replaced with understanding . . . and everything, absolutely everything, was possible with him.
