I awoke with a heavy heart. It was surreal watching Jesus hang on a cross, breathing his last breath and wondering how it could have happened. Last week the crowds were roaring with excitement, even laying palm branches on his path and this week he is dead. I believed he would be the savior of the world, that he would bring peace and hope to all people and now to be so confused and so sad that it came to this.
Yesterday I gathered flowers to take to his grave and I left early to place them there and to pray for his soul and mine. The soldiers guarding his tomb seemed in a daze, like they were waking up from a night of hard drinking. I was shocked to see the huge stone, that guarded Jesus’ body, rolled away and off its track. Jesus’ tomb was empty and the linens Joseph wrapped his friend in were folded neatly, blood still staining them. I dropped my flowers and ran to find his disciples, they had to know what happened, that Jesus’ body had been taken.
As I swung open the door in a panic I was stopped immediately by what I saw. The disciples were standing around Jesus, wholly alive! My knees gave way and I fell on my face before Him. He is alive, just as he said he would be. It was not a ghost but a man, flesh and blood, talking to us, letting us touch his hands and feet that had been so brutally maimed just a few days ago. Today there are scars but no wounds, this man, God, stood before us as though he never left.