She got up two hours before sunrise. She couldn’t sleep, and lying wide-eyed in the dark was not doing any good. She had to be up and getting ready. She dressed quickly and took up the basket she had prepared the night before. She checked it again to make sure everything was there. She didn’t want to come back for anything.
The outside air was cool after the closeness inside. She pulled her cloak close around her. No one would be abroad at this hour. No one except the other women, who, like her were going to the garden. Her grief, still painful but now kept at bay by the task at hand, went with her like a dead child she had to carry.
As she walked she examined her feelings. She felt bereft, of course, but there was something unexpected, and she realized it was anger, not just anger that he was gone. No, it was the senseless, uselessness of his death. His friends had warned him. They all knew that the authorities were looking for any pretext to get rid of him. But he would not listen. He insisted on going into the city, teaching in the temple, and deliberately antagonizing the religious leaders. She was angry at him.
She couldn’t fathom it. He had been so different. He had done such extraordinary things. She had almost believed that he was the anointed one the Prophets had talked about. Who was she kidding? She did believe it. But now, how could it be true? He was going to restore the kingdom. He was going to rule with his closest followers. She had heard him talk about it in that confident, so-certain voice that made you sure whatever he said was true.
That was enough to make her angry, feeling they had all been duped. The fickle crowds had praised him only a week ago and demanded his execution just two days ago. His death could have been avoided. It was all so pointless, so hopeless. She couldn’t see any way forward for herself.
That was the worst part. He was utterly different from any man she had ever known. With him she felt seen, felt heard, felt respected. She could hardly articulate it to herself. There were men she felt comfortable with. There had been men she had loved. But there was only one man who made her feel so present. She didn’t know how she could go back from that. Part of her grief was for a loss she had no words for, a loss of her very self.
When she got to the garden, she saw that she was the first to arrive. She didn’t have long to wait. The other women, looking as forlorn and empty as she felt, soon approached.
“We’ve been talking,” Joanna said. “The tomb is sealed by a great stone. Who will roll it away for us?”
“Maybe we will find someone to help us,” she replied. “Let’s just go and see what needs to be done.”
When they got to the tomb, they found the stone already rolled away. At first they thought it would make everything easier, but they soon realized why it was moved. His body was gone. Someone had come in the night and taken his body.
“Who would do such a thing?” she cried. But she knew. The religious leaders feared his followers would steal his body and claim he had risen from the dead as he had said he would. To prevent that, they must have moved the body themselves. She thought about Peter and the other men, how devastated they had been. There was no way any of them could have done this.
The other women were conferring together, deciding what to do. They agreed to go tell the men and urged her to join them, but she wanted to be alone. “I’ll just stay here,” she said, and that seemed to satisfy them. She wondered if they could read the anguish in her heart on her face.
After they left, the grief would no longer be held back. She cried. Her whole body shook with sobs, and she made no attempt to conceal them. Her misery and despair seemed as vast as the sea. She did not know how long she cried. A voice behind her startled her.
“Ma’am, why are you crying?”
“Because they have taken away my lord,” she said without turning around, “and I don’t know where they have laid him. Please, sir, if you know where he is, please take me to him.”
“Mary,” said the voice, and that one word sent an impossible thrill through her. It couldn’t be. She turned, hastily wiping tears from her eyes. It was! He was there, looking more alive than ever. Without thinking, she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his warm chest. She was sure she would die. Then she thought perhaps she already had, and this was that heaven he had so often talked about. She did not know how long she held him and felt the vitality of his body. She kept looking up into his face, trying to see in it the horror she had seen him undergo. She saw him smile, and she held him even more tightly. Then he gently pried her arms from around his body.
“Don’t hold on to me now,” he said. “I have to present myself to my Father. Go and tell my disciples, especially Peter, that you have seen me.”
She stepped back looked at him, trying to take in every detail. The marks of his torture were still there, but his face! His face! She knew she would never forget his face and never be able to describe it. So great was her joy that her own face mirrored his, though she did not know it. She could barely take in what he said to her. He had given her a task. What was it? Ah, yes. She was to tell the men that she had seen him. She turned and ran toward the city, her basket of embalming spices forgotten on the ground. The sun was up, and the world was filling with light.