This is the first short story in a series that I hope to post throughout this week in preparation for Easter. Each is told in the point of view (POV) of one of the characters mentioned in one of the gospels' accounts of Easter. Please note that the ending of this story is told from John's account in John chapter 20. Enjoy!
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I couldn’t watch. Yet…I couldn’t turn away. It was as though
I was betraying my King if I did either. He wasn’t supposed to be dying. He
wasn’t supposed to be taking my punishment. He wasn’t supposed to be whipped.
He wasn’t supposed to be mocked.
It was me that was supposed to be dying. It was I that
deserved the capital punishment. If anyone, I should’ve been whipped and
mocked.
I wanted to cower, turn away, and hide my face. I didn’t
want to hear His agonizing cries of pain. The sorrow and pain in my own heart
seemed heavier than anything else in the world. The true criminals nailed
beside Him mocked Him. The sun rose high in the sky. It was nearly noon, and
the crowd around me hurled abusive speech at the man who had saved my life.
They yelled and shouted, as though He deserved the cruelest death in all of the
Roman Empire. He didn’t.
They scoffed and mocked him, and I pushed my way through the
throng. As I made my way through, I heard mockers cry out, "He saved others; He cannot save Himself." I wanted to yell back in return that He could, but for some reason He did not. It would do no good. Others shouted, "Let this Christ, the King of Israel, now come down from the cross, so that we may see and believe!" It stung to hear these ignorant people say such awful things. They would never believe. Even if He came down from the cross, they wouldn't believe. Their hearts were hardened against Him. I strained my eyes to read the sign written in the Hebrew characters
above His head. It read, ‘THE KING OF THE JEWS.’ At least they had gotten that
right. I could imagine the elders and leaders protesting whoever had written
that, saying, “Don’t write ‘The King of the Jews’; but that He said, ‘I am the
King of the Jews.’”
I pulled my head covering further over my head. No one
noticed me, and no one recognized me as the woman who had had the demons cast
from her. My Lord had done that…. the same Lord that was hanging from the cross
before me. I ran to the edge of the crowd, sobbing. Abruptly, the sky grew dark
as night, as though it was midnight instead of noon. The people around me were
surprised and apprehensive, causing uproar. I caught my breath.
He suffered for three more hours, and I cried at the edge of
the crowd, not willing myself to move from my rigid spot at the edge of the
bystanders. Others moved on, yelling and shouting, and those walking past cried
out in crude language and hateful words. One who was walking pass shook his head and shouted, "Ha! you who are going to destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, save Yourself and come down from the cross!"
Suddenly, a loud voice cried out. I recognized it. In my
native language, He spoke. “My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?” Several
around me didn’t understand what He said and spoke to one another saying, “Behold, He is
calling for Elijah,” in scoffing tones. I shook my head. They didn’t
understand. They didn’t understand that He was suffering… for them. An agonized
cry sounded… and then silence.
I peered over the crowd and saw the centurion, the powerful
man with men at his command, kneel and say with authority, “Truly this man was
the Son of God!”
I crumpled to the ground and wept. Finally, someone who knew
the truth.
Evening came, and tomorrow would be the Sabbath. A highly
prestigious and prominent member of the Council, Joseph of Arimathea, had asked
for the body of Jesus.
I stood and watched from a distance as Joseph took the body
down and wrapped Him in the traditional linen cloths. I followed discretely,
and watched as they laid Him in hewn-out rock tomb. Joseph laid his hands on
the large rock that stood nearby and rolled it against the entrance.
Jesus was dead. My Savior… was buried. He, the man who had
cast the demons from me, was gone. The realization hit me as though lightning
cursed through my body. Tears fell from my face and sparkled as they hit the
ground. The sun was setting, yet I stayed. It was as though I stayed out of
loyalty, though I didn’t know why. I saw
the silhouette of a woman against the horizon. I recognized her from our
ministry with Jesus in Jerusalem. She was His mother. I could not imagine her
agony at this moment. I had heard her miraculous story several times, and I
knew she was suffering deeply.
The Sabbath came and passed, as it did every week, and I
went through the motions and ritual habitually but without thinking.
The first day of the week was here. The sun hadn’t yet peeked
over the horizon, and I struggled to rise. I wanted to wake up from this dream
of horror, from the terrible scenes I had witnessed over the past few days. But
I couldn’t.
I went to the tomb, while it was still dark. As I approached
it, crying, my eyes made out the silhouette of the outcropping of the stone
that had been rolled before the tomb. My pulse raced and I started running
toward it. Fearfully, I observed that the stone had been taken from the tomb –
rolled to the side. I lifted my robes and ran.
I ran. I ran to the door of Simon Peter, and ran to the
other disciple whom Jesus loved. I pounded on their doors and exclaimed, “They
have taken away the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have
laid Him.” Peter and the other disciple were greatly alarmed. The both hurried
out of their homes and ran ahead of me, going to the tomb. John ran even faster
than Peter and went to the edge of the tomb, peering inside. With the light of
the sunrise on the horizon streaming into the garden where the tomb was, he
observed that which I had not. Linen wrappings were laying there, yet he did
not go inside. Simon Peter followed him, but he entered the tomb. The
face-cloth which had been on the Lord’s head was rolled up by itself and laid
to the side. I found this odd, but I was too distraught to speak. The two
disciples stood there for a moment. I wanted them to say something, to reassure
me that all was okay, that this was just a horrific dream. They didn’t. They
passed by me slowly, silently treading down the path. I stood outside of the
tomb, and as they left, I began weeping, my tears splashing onto the dirt and
lush plants. I wept.
A few moments later, I placed my hand on the stone that had
been rolled away and looked inside once more, planning to leave as the
disciples did after I looked over the burial place one more time.
I suddenly gave a little cry of alarm. Two men dressed in
white were sitting inside, one at the head and one at the feet, where the body
of Jesus had been lying. How had they gotten inside? Who were they? What had
they done with the body? They spoke, and startled me.
“Woman, why are you weeping?” the one asked in rich tones.
My heart was pounding, and my breath came in short gasps. I choked back my
tears and stammered in as much confidence as I could collect in that short
amount of time,
“Because… because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not
know where they have laid Him.” It was the truth. I turned away quickly,
wanting to leave as hurriedly as I could before the tears came again. Another
man was standing there, though, and I assumed he was the gardener.
“Woman, why are you weeping?” I was asked the question
again. “Whom are you seeking?” I pleaded with Him.
“Sir, if you have carried Him away, tell me where you have
laid Him, and I will take Him away.” I turned to go, tears falling from my face
once more. It was then that a startling peace swept through me. I caught my
breath. It was my name. It was a voice…. A voice I knew…. A voice that I loved.
“Mary!” my name resounded throughout the garden, and I
whirled around.
“Rabboni!” I cried out, both in fear and in joy. I fell to
my knees and clung to the edge of His garment.
“Stop clinging to Me,” He said gently. “For I have not yet
ascended to the Father; but go to My brethren and say to them, ‘I ascend to My
Father and your Father, and My God and your God.’”
The tears rushed like a river, falling at His feet, but I
obeyed. My hands unconsciously loosed from the hem, but I stayed in my knelt
form. I looked up to see His face once more… but He was gone.
I knew it was a miracle. It was an astounding one. It was
then that I remembered what He had said. He would rise again… and He did.
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