The Beginning

It wasn't the end of the story. It was only the beginning. See for yourself:

Matthew 28:1-10

After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.

The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.' Now I have told you."

So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them. "Greetings," he said. They came to him, clasped his feet and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, "Do not be afraid. Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me."

HE IS RISEN. HE IS RISEN INDEED!

Saturday

I don't remember going to sleep. I don't remember sleeping at all, but I must have because I woke up. I woke up and willed my eyes not to open. "Please let it be a bad dream," I prayed. "Please let it be a bad dream." I finally opened my eyes, burning and swollen, and saw the circle of women around me. "She's waking up," one said in a whisper to the others. The light from the window blinded me, and I immediately felt enraged at the sun for rising over a world without my son in it. "He's really gone," I whispered to myself. "HE'S REALLY GONE!" I cried to the heavens. The sobs suddenly poured out of me uncontrollably, and my body felt hot with rage and sorrow. I jumped up and tried to cross the room to cover the window--to darken the room to match my mood--but body caved into a heap, the weight of my grief too heavy for my legs to bear. I wailed and let out primal sounding moans. I could physically feel my heart breaking, and I clutched at my chest and was surprised not to see any blood. The women gathered closer around me and made hushing noises while they stoked my hair, just like he did only days ago.

When he told me what was to come, I didn't want to believe. "No," I said, "you're so young. I've lived my life. Let them take me." His sad eyes answered me before his words did. "It has to be me, Mama." I imagined them doing terrible things to him (not, as it would turn out, as terrible as would actually occur) and cringed. I remembered patching up his bony skinned knees and kissing his bruises. Could that have really been so many years ago? "Mama will fix it," I used to cluck in his ear when he was hurt. But I couldn't fix it this time. How could it be that I depended on the little boy who used to depend on me? "No," I told him again. "I need you." He nodded. "Yes, Mama. So does the rest of the world." "No!" I was more adamant this time. "I can't live without you." He wrapped his arms around my sobbing body and stroked my hair. "That's exactly why I have to go."

He promised me that this would not be the end. I believed him. He promised me that God had a plan. I believed him. But he's gone. He's gone and he took a part of me with him. "Just wait. You'll see," he told me. See what? See them beat and murder my precious son? See them hang him from a cross and mock him? See him take his last painful breath? WHAT, Son? What do you want me to see? My God, did You really mean for it to end like this?