She found herself at the garden, early, distraught. The only one who had ever been able to help her was gone. Weeping this morning in the dark before sunrise, she stumbled. Crushing grief lay so heavy in her chest, it was difficult to breathe.
Something looked different when she approached the tomb. The stone! The seal was broken, and the guards were gone! Panic struck her, and she fled.
Peter and John were approaching. She burst out, “He’s gone! Someone’s taken Him away–I don’t know where!”
The men ran to the garden, Peter straight into the tomb. John hung back at the door. This couldn’t be happening. First, the Lord had been killed. That was bad enough. Now, His body was gone. Cautiously, he bent down and stepped through the stone entrance.
There were the graveclothes. And the napkin that had bound Jesus’ head. Folded neatly, but the body was gone. Bewildered, the men looked at each other. This was too much. They left for home, leaving Mary once again alone in the garden, weeping inconsolably. Leaning against the cold stone of the tomb, she forced herself to look into the opening. Her heart jumped into her throat. Her stomach churned.
Angels. Where His feet and head had been. But He wasn’t there.
“Woman, why are you crying?”
“They’ve taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they’ve laid Him.” her thin, quavering voice cracked. The angels did not answer.
She turned away from the tomb, foggy, confused. There stood a man before her. The gardener.
“Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”
More questions, no answers. She was getting upset. “Sir, if you have taken Him somewhere, tell me where you have laid Him, and I will take Him away.”
The Voice. That Voice. The one that had with vehement force cast out seven demons from her soul. She would never forget it. Slowly, heart pounding, she lifted her face to Him.
“Master!” she gasped, knees weak. She reached out to Him, believing, overcome with joy.
“Don’t touch me,” He spoke gently. “I have not ascended to my Father. But go to my brothers; tell them I am ascending to my Father–your Father! And to my God–your God.”
He was gone.
Tingling, she hurried out of the garden. He was alive! She could hardly believe it, though she had just seen it. Her own eyes could not betray her. This was real. The angels in the tomb had asked her the question, but Jesus reserved the answer for Himself.
The Master, her Master, was alive! And though His plan was not finished, He had taken time to comfort her. Her tears were not forgotten, not unseen. Though she had thought she was alone in the garden, He had been waiting for her. This was real love. This kind of love filled the depths of her soul, far beyond where her tormentors had scratched and clawed.
The cavernous wound in her heart that had pulsated with each lash she watched Him suffer, splattering blood and shredded flesh, was now whole, bathed in glorious salve. He had not waited a moment longer than necessary to ease her sorrow, though His pain had far exceeded any emotional distress she felt.
What love! She had heard how He wept with Mary at Lazarus’ tomb. He understood! What compassion! Though Lazarus was alive and whole again moments later, He knew the feeling of grief.
Her spine tingled as she recalled His words to Martha. “I am the resurrection and the Life.”
Yes! He IS!
She laughed to herself, blushing a little, recalling just how much He had spoken of this before.
What else might she have missed had He not come to see her?
Thankful, joyful, she quickened her steps. Much to tell! The disciples needed to know.