Last night’s rain left a faint scent in the morning air as we made our way slowly to the gravesite. The week’s dust had settled, silenced by the sky’s tears. Yesterday was no day of rest. Evening prayers were bitter. Something told me we were bidding farewell to Sabbath for longer than a week. Faith would never be the same.
We took his body from the cross just before sunset on Sabbath eve. Now, early on the first day of the week, the smell of oil and spices were still fixed in mind, as if we were laying our Rest to rest all over again. We wanted to remember, even if it hurt.
That I could be a cloth, clinging to his body. His death was my death. Where would we go? What would we do?
Somehow, the thought of him still drew me to his side. I felt called, compelled. Where else could I go?
Here I am, walking. The gravesite is in view. I am ready to pay my respects, to offer my devotion to the One who saved my life. I am ready to die. Maybe on the other side he will show me love and hope again. My life can never be the same.