I awoke in the dark that Sunday with my eyes swollen from weeping. For a moment, I could not remember why, and then it all came back to me in a sickening rush, and my stomach lurched. My beloved friend and teacher was dead!
I had witnessed unspeakable horrors the previous Friday, like the shattering cruelty of the soldiers and the ugliness of the leering, bloodthirsty crowd. I had seen the sorrow and loneliness in Jesus’ eyes as he made his way, slowly and agonizingly, to Golgotha.
I had felt helpless because all I could do was follow along with the other women and the apostle John. We gathered beneath the cross, and we were all shocked and grief-stricken, especially Jesus’ mother.
My head ached from the memories. I dressed quickly that Sunday. I had a terrible sense of urgency because Jesus’ body had been placed in a tomb, but there hadn’t been time to anoint the body properly.
I knew it might be dangerous to go alone, but all I could think about was the broken and bloodied body of my friend. I made my way, in the dark, to the garden where the tomb was. As I hurried
