The Day My Son Came Home

Near Jerusalem, over 2,000 years ago

Nothing breaks a mother’s heart like a sick child. Holding your most precious treasure in the world and watching them suffer changes you. It breaks you, leaving you fragile and vulnerable to the harsh reality of life.

I was broken when my little Eli died. My heart shattered, and I could barely keep going for the rest of my family. He was my youngest, and he was funny and cheerful no matter what life brought to our village, Bethany, or to our home. Though he was young, his faith in Yahweh rivaled the rabbi’s in our synagogue. He was my ray of sunshine, and I forgot to wear the protection of indifference as he grew. I set my heart on always having him with me.

The funeral day dawned grey and depressing, describing the state of my soul in a way that almost felt like a comfort, if it were not for the pain and hopelessness that overwhelmed every sense. We followed behind the coffin, carried by Eli’s older brothers, stopping only when another procession coming out of the city interrupted our solemn pilgrimage to the family burial cave. I lifted disinterested eyes, raw and cloudy from the pressure of my tears, to see that Roman soldiers were leading men out to crucify them. It only served to worsen my mood. If life was not stolen away by disease or accidents in this unforgiving life, it was taken by other men, cruelly and without mercy.

I did not want to live in this world anymore. I wanted to go with little Eli, to fly away to the paradise God had promised his children, that young Eli had believed in with all that he was.

After the rabbi spoke over the coffin, family members and neighbors dispersed with quiet expressions of their sympathy. I stayed behind, unwilling to allow the men to take the coffin into the cave and roll the heavy stone in place. It was so final, my testimony that he was gone forever, and nothing would ever bring him back to me. Even my other children and my husband left in search of food while I waited by his coffin.

Waited for what? I did not know the answer, but my heart would not let go, so I sat among the quiet grove of olive trees, hardly even looking up later in the afternoon when the wind picked up and a storm blew past. It became as dark as night, and still I only allowed the distraction to be an expression of my sadness. I did not wonder why.

As I sat, morose and spent of my crying, there was an unexpected sound.

It was a knocking. A fist against wood. As I searched the premises, I quickly saw that the only thing made of wood was the coffin resting in front of the cave entrance. My throat tight, I went to it, falling to my knees and reaching for a stick to pry it open as quickly as I could.

Eli sat up, blinking his eyes as if he had just rose from a refreshing nap, and not the sleep of death. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes clear. He reached for me, and I pulled him into my lap without a second thought.

“Hello, Mama,” he said, as if nothing had happened.

In the years to come, I would remember the strange event every time I looked at my son, who grew into a strong man, inside and out. In the first days, I did not know what it meant, but as I heard about the other death in Jerusalem that day – the man they called Jesus of Nazareth – and how he had returned to life the third day after; when I heard that he was the Messiah, and he had come to defeat death so that we might not fear it and we might know that we could live again – live forever, I believed. All of us believed.

A life that is not spent in terror of the grave is a peaceful existence. But to know that our true life waits for us beyond our final breath, that is the true gift. This life is only but a moment, and then we are with him.

Praise to our conquering Messiah! He defeated the power of death and sin and set us free to live – and die, only to live once again – in his beautiful name.

When Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and the rocks split. The tombs broke open and the bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. They came out of the tombs, and after Jesus’ resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many people. – Matthew 27:50-53