I walked slowly along the path, my head bowed, my spirit crushed.
My life had started well. A good father, who married me to a good man. He was no rabbi, but he loved Yahweh and loved me. We had one son, and one was enough. Others whispered behind our backs, but my husband never condemned me, or asked for more. It was God's will, and that was all. Eventually, the whispers stopped, and acceptance came.
Nain became our home. My husband had relatives there, and he set up there as a carpenter and worker in stone. It was a respectable trade, and it provided for us. I was loved by most, and my little boy was the darling of the town, with his ready smile and giving heart. As he grew older, more than one young woman began to look at him. He was growing into a strong lad, and I had no doubt he would take over the business when the time was right.
Then my husband had died. A fall. He was buried with honor, as it was revealed just how much he had given to the town. They banded together behind me and my son. Though I was now a widow, I did not feel unloved. My boy became the man of the house. Though he did not know all of my husband's knowledge, he knew enough to do simple projects, and though we did not have the money we once had, we could still survive. I was not reduced to gleaning, or to other, darker avenues, as many widows I had heard.
Stories of the teacher soon began to circulate in our village. He was seen in Caperneum, in Cana, in Tiberius. Some said he had been to the feasts. Of course, he would, as a Jew in good standing. Though...we did not see him when we went to Jerusalem. Not the handsome, popular figure we expected. We heard his teaching, and agreed with much of it. Yet we had our lives, and we did not want to leave the fragile place for the life of a wandering rabbi.
Then my son took sick and died. In the space of two months, he was gone. I could still see his face pale with coughing. The doctors...they could not help. A young Roman doctor even came...Lucas, I think was his name, but even he could do nothing. He seemed a kind man, and gave a little money to help me. But he could not stay.
Now was the third day, and we were walking slowly along toward the tomb where I buried my husband. My husband's family was there, and the elders of Nain, supporting me for a second time.
Was God listening? Did he care? Should he take my husband, and then my son? Now I was truly desperate. I had some shekels saved by, but it would not last forever. I could glean, but at this moment, I barely had the strength to lift my head. I felt much older than my forty years. I felt empty, bereft of all hope and all strength. Maybe I could lay my head down on my son's shoulder and give up. I heard of such heartbreak, but such was not for me. I felt empty, but not so much as to face the judgment of God for such a heathen act. I wanted to...but I could not.
The mourners were a buzz around me, a circle of black, their cries reaching up to heavens of brass. God would not answer. The days of miracles were done. I would rise at the last day, but Elijah would not appear to breathe over my son, and Moses would not part the seas of grief.
Suddenly I noticed another man in the party. He was dressed simply, in rough wool homespun, his bearded face seeming to peer this way and that. His eyes stopped when they lit on me, and I felt weighed to her soul by the fire in that gaze. A prophet of some sort, maybe, or one who had seen much. Those eyes seemed weighed down with sorrow, and I realized he was feeling as I was. Certainly, he knew widow's black when he saw it.
"Do not be troubled," he said simply. "Do not weep."
I nearly spoke sharply to the man. He knew mourning clothes. He told me not to weep. Was he a lunatic? Did he know what he was saying, did he not know the grief that bound my heart in chains of iron? Or was he simply cruel, offering what he could not give?
He touched the coffin, and the bearers stopped. Now his voice deepened, and he spoke with command so great I almost thought the whole earth moved. I nearly fainted at the power in those words. "Young man, I say to you, arise!"
No. He was not seriously trying...a fool and a magician, maybe. I had heard of such sorcery, the communication with the dead. The crowd looked angry too. They had the same thoughts. The mourners stopped, confused, their keening trailing away into a ragged silence.
I had a brief moment of disorientation, as though time was moving backwards, then...a head appeared over the edge of the coffin. My son's head, still wrapped with bandages. The mother in me erupted, and I ran forward, seeing my son alive again. I couldn't move fast enough to get the bandages off of him, and then I was hugging him, kissing his eyes, his hair, his still-growing beard. He was real, he was real, and he was alive.
I looked around for the man with such power. I didn't know who he was, and he was gone. Gone, as though he had never been there. All I knew was that my son was alive, and I would tell everyone about the man with the kind face and loving eyes.
A/N: This was a very personal story to write. I have seen death up close, and each time, it has been a grueling experience. In fact, I write this having found out a family member has gone to heaven. So if it doesn't seem as detailed, or as long, as the others, that is why. Grief is like a clamp that, if not loosened, can squeeze the very life out of you. I hope to recover my good spirits, and better writing, soon.