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I have been so eager to worship at the sacred temple this Sabbath, but as other worshipers gather for the morning service I slip out of town and head for the garden where my Friend sleeps. People are asking for Jesus, bringing their sick to be healed. I am unable to talk to anyone. I need solitude. In Joseph’s garden I hope to be alone, to think and pray. Amid the shrubbery I seat myself on a rock, and putting my head into my hands I let the tears come. For a long time I sit hunched on my perch, mourning for the Man who loved and understood me. Silently I pray, pouring out my questions and doubts. I don’t feel angry at God, but I can not fathom why He let Jesus die. All those Scriptures I’d heard about the Messiah speak of a kingdom, a throne, and a scepter. If Jesus is the anointed One, why did He die? No answers come from heaven, nor any lightening to strike me down because I question the death of Jesus. Only silence.
My back aches, my heart hurts, but my mental turmoil exceeds both. I decide to take a walk. Perhaps I’ll go to Bethany to see friends. Gazing at the huge rock covering the cave entrance where Jesus lies, cold and silent, it seems so final—without me even getting to say good bye.
As I leave the garden I see a group of soldiers approaching. I quicken my pace in the opposite direction. Merging with the many visitors to Jerusalem I walk around the city, taking the road leading to Bethany. Lost in thought, wrapped in sorrow, I don’t notice who or what I pass. I am hoping to find Martha at home, to ask her about Jesus. He often stayed with this family. Maybe He’d told them something. As I walk up the side street to their house I meet Mary, the other sister. She is crying. “Do you know?” she chokes and can not continue.
“Yes,” I whisper, reaching out to embrace this sister. We cling to each other mingling our tears, sharing the sorrow of loosing someone we love.
Mary finally manages to speak. “I’m going to my quiet place in the woods. You may come.” Deciding to join her I follow. Not trusting ourselves to talk, we walk in silence. However, once we are seated in a secluded clump of trees by a small stream Mary again speaks. “I knew Jesus was going to die. He’d told me. Many didn’t believe His words, not even His chosen disciples. In fact, His followers were talking about Him being crowned King. I spent all my savings to buy expensive ointment to bury Him, but I decided to be the first to anoint Jesus as King. Everyone thought my gift a waste of money, a bold act, a disturbance to the feast.” I wonder what Mary is talking about, but I don’t interrupt to ask. She loves Jesus as I do. Unlike me, she showed Jesus her love in an act of adoration and worship. Then I remember shouting my praise to Jesus the day He rode the donkey in a royal procession. I didn’t have money to buy Him a gift, but He understood. He knew I loved Him.
For a long time we sit side by side, sharing with one another our personal encounters with Jesus. Our soul needs have been met by this Man who dared to love and care about rejected women. In Him we’d experienced a forgiving and understanding Savior who cared for us.
When we finally return to Mary’s house, Martha greets us with concern in her voice. “I am worried about you, just as I am about Lazarus. I’m afraid those bigoted murders will kill him next. He has dared to go to Jerusalem to meet with Jesus’ disciples. I couldn’t persuade him to stay home. Then you ran off. But come now, you must both have something to eat. I’ve set fruit and crackers on the table.”
Although I don’t feel like eating I force myself to nibble a cracker. I notice Mary isn’t eating much either. As the sun sets, ending the Sabbath, I rise to leave. “Don’t go. Spend the night with us,” Martha invites. Tired and emotionally drained, I agree.
Laying quietly in the dark, alone with my thoughts, I relive the memories of meeting Jesus for the first time, of the day at the temple when Jesus listened to me, and of sitting at His feet as He taught the multitudes of people—lonely, hurting people such as I. Some of His words replay in my mind. “Happy are the poor, the hungry, and those who mourn. They will be filled, comforted, and given the kingdom of heaven.”
“Father, how?” I cry into the dark. Even though Jesus lies in a tomb, His lips silent, in the stillness of the night it is as though He speaks to me. “I am working out a plan for you through my life and now my death. In accepting Me you will have a part in my kingdom.”
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