Tombs and Tears

She forces her eyes open. Her head throbs from hours of crying. Looking around at the spices that are strewn about her on the ground, she wipes her face.

She has not said a word, but by the raw, scratchy feeling in her throat, she knows that if she tries to speak the words will come out coarse and broken.

The hideous memories of the past few days flood her mind, like a horror show on replay. Her eyes water again and her lips quiver. As the tears streak down her face, she trembles, but it is not because of the cold. She is not even aware that it is cold. No, the trembling is from within.

How did things go so wrong?

In her mind plays out pictures from her life Before. Scorned, shamed, lonely and afraid. Half out of her mind most of the time. She had known nothing but chaos and darkness—until Him. He who brought stillness to her mind for the first time. Him to who she owes her very life.

And now, He is no more. Put to death by people He showed nothing but love to. Even worse, some scoundrels have stolen His corpse! How much more does He need to suffer? He, who was the gentlest and kindest person she knew. It isn’t fair!

Her sobs grow louder.

“Why are you weeping?” someone says, and she looks up to see two men seated, similar to the ones she had seen this morning when she had come with the other women. She remembers the words those men had spoken when they arrived at the gravesite.

“Why are you looking for the living among the dead?”, and “He is not here, He is risen!”.

At first, she had been hopeful. He had actually said those words, even though she didn’t know what they meant at the time. Excited, she ran to tell Simon and the others.

But hours passed, and there was no trace of Him. She had even come back to the gravesite to be sure, but nothing. Now seeing more men similar to the ones from this morning, she is convinced that this is a sick joke set up by either the political or the religious leaders. They never liked Him in the first place.

“Someone has taken away my Lord,” she barks bitterly in response, wishing the tears away yet unable to stop herself from crying, “and I don’t know where they have taken Him.”

Overwhelmed with emotion, she turns to leave. A man stands in the path, blocking her way. He looks slightly familiar but she can’t see through her tears. It doesn’t matter anyway; he is most likely the gardener she ran into during one of her visits here.

“Woman”, he asks, “Why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”

She considers ignoring him and going home. But she is tired of this game. She knows that if she walks away from here, only the darkness and chaos from the Before await her. The least they can do is let her bury Him.

So she kneels, and clasps hands tightly together in front of her.

“Just tell where you put him, Sir”, she begs, sobbing violently. “If you are the one that took Him away, just tell me. I will go and get Him myself, just tell me where He is, please!”

“…Mary.”

She stills. It is as though the world halts on it axis. As though she was suffocating under water and finally came up for air.

Mary.

It is a simple word, her name. And yet only one person could make it sound so musical. Only one person has that Voice. She looks up, and unbelievably, unfathomably, there He is, His face as loving and open and warm as ever.

“Rabbi!”

He is alive.

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(Ref: John 20:1-18, Mark 16:1-10, Matthew 28: 1-10, Luke 24:1-10)