by Donna Poole
My screams wake me from the same nightmare. I hear my maids rustling, whispering; the youngest hurries to me, tears on her innocent face. I wipe her tears with the back of my hand.
“Go back to bed, little one. You cannot help me; no one can help me now.”
Who am I?
They call me Mary Magdalene, because I come from Magdala, a village on the Sea of Galilee. Some say I was a harlot, one of the many my village is famous for. Others insist I was the sinner who went to Simon’s home to wash the feet of Jesus with my tears and wipe them with my long hair. I neither confirm nor deny; what does it matter?
Who am I? I am no one. But Jesus? Who is Jesus? He is everything; He is God. Or so I thought. But can God die?I whisper it; I shout it to the heavens, but silence mocks me.
I try to forget the nightmare and sleep. My fine imported sheets feel like sackcloth. I ask, could you sleep if you were me? I am crazy with grief and have slept only in torn fragments since Wednesday. When my eyes close, my seven tormentors, those seven ancient demons Jesus commanded to leave me, hover at the edge of the nightmare and taunt me.
“Where is He now, your so-called Lord? You saw it all, and so did we! Wasn’t it delightful?”
Their hellish shrieks of laughter wake me, and I jump to my feet, drenched in sweat.
Yes, I saw it all. Like torn snapshots thrown in a jumbled pile, my memories fragment in my tortured mind. I remember shivering in the cold waiting the results of the mock trial and seeing Pilate, that spineless coward, pronounce the death sentence. I saw Jesus, barely resembling a man after the sadistic soldiers finished torturing him. I heard the devilish crowd taunt and humiliate him, and I heard the horrible, thudding sound of spikes driven into his hands and feet.
I splash cold water on my face. I was young three days ago; now I’m an old woman who doesn’t take care of herself. What does it matter?
I slip into my sandals. It’s almost dawn, time for me to meet my friend Mary, called “the other Mary.” Like me, she supported Jesus and the disciples with supplies and money.
What will I do with my money now? It means nothing to me. Perhaps I will use it to care for my youngest maid. I think of her tearful face; somehow, I know all those tears were not just for me. Have I been so busy following the Master that I’ve been only hearing his words and not doing them? How could I have missed seeing this suffering maid-child right in my own household? Why is she not with her mother? Had she been sold to pay a debt? I will try to return her to her home, and if she has no home, can I adopt her? I brush aside the thought. What have I left to give a child? I am a broken old woman. I have no hope, and those without hope have nothing to give.
I meet Mary, and we walk in silence along the dusty paths to the rich man’s tomb that holds the body of Jesus. Mary looks like I feel. I reach for her hand, and she clings to it. Some other women will meet us at the tomb with spices so we can prepare his body. Can I bear to touch the cold, dead body of my beloved Lord? I shudder; Mary knows my thoughts. She wraps her arms around me. Our tears mingle, and then we walk on.
The sun rises, but the wind that usually accompanies it is still, and no birds sing. Why is the world standing breathless on tiptoe? I am holding my breath too, and so is my friend. Then I see the gigantic stone is rolled away from the tomb. There’s a blinding flash of angels. We’re confused and frightened and run to find the disciples.
Later, I’m alone again, alone just as I was when people shunned me before Jesus found me, alone as I probably will always be. I investigate the empty tomb. Who has stolen his body? Am I to be deprived of even this? Am I not to be allowed to care for the body of my beloved Lord?
Through my tears I see nothing. Then, in a blur, I notice the gardener.
“Oh, Sir,” I cry, hope against hope. “Have you moved his body? Please tell me where he is. I will carry him away.”
How can I, a slight woman, carry the body of my Lord? But I will carry Him; somehow, I will.
Suddenly the man speaks one word. “Mary.”
I know that voice. Through my tears I see everything. He is not the gardener; He is my Lord, and my God. Jesus is alive!
I fall and clasp his feet.
In that gentle voice I love he tells me to let go of him and go give a message to the disciples. I run; I fly to obey him. I will never again be alone. Somehow, in some way, Jesus will be with me always.
As I race down the dirt paths to find the disciples, I answer my own question. Can God die? Yes! He can if He becomes a man! And can death hold that Man? Death can never hold God! Jesus, the God-Man, defeated sin and death on the cross. I don’t understand it, but I know it’s true. I know something else. He didn’t do it just for himself; he never did anything just for himself. He did it for me too, and for the world.
After I find the disciples, I will find my little maid. I have everything to give her now. I have hope.
