His mother fell to her knees and began to pray. Her sister held her. I ran – again. But this time I was running to, not away. I ran to the gang and slammed open the door. I woke them all. I babbled. I told them Jesus wasn’t there. That the tomb was empty. That maybe ... maybe … Most of them just looked at me as if I’d snapped. As if it had all been too much for me. As if it hadn’t been too much for all of us. But Peter listened. And the other one who had always been so close to Jesus, who had always been so loyal. The one who had loved him as much as I had. The one who Jesus had loved as much as he had loved me. The only one I’d ever been jealous of. And he of me. We ran back, passing his mother on the way. She was beaming. At the tomb, Peter – of course – rushed in. He came out looking confused. The other looked in and turned to me. His eyes were a question to which I didn’t have a clear answer. And I began to worry. To imagine other possibilities. I had been so sure but that one look, that trusting, hopeful look undid me. I began to cry. Again. They ran back to tell the others what I had already told them. To ‘mansplain’ the truth. To confirm the mystery. I walked to the tomb and looked inside. Through my tears I saw two smaller, gentler beings of light, siting where Jesus’ body must have been laid. They spoke to me. “Woman, why are you crying?” I said, “They have taken my friend away, and I don’t know where they have put him.” They just smiled back at me with such kindness and love that I burst into tears again. Turning, I saw another person, but my eyes were blurry with the tears and I just assumed they worked there. He asked, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?” I said, “Sir, if you have carried Jesus away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.” 124
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