Picture the scene: an old lady, dying in a small, darkened room, thinking back…

Born in Magdala of a well-to-do family connected with textiles, my life really was not very successful initially, despite the convenience of wealth. There was a gnawing fear inside me which led to inappropriate behaviour on more than one occasion; people shunned me, avoided me, did their best to have nothing to do with me… until I met Jesus.

He was not afraid to talk with me, to look me in the eye… and the deliverance He brought changed me forever. I became a devoted follower, like so many other women, seeking to support Him in whatever ways I could. But then, that spring so many years ago… He was killed like a common criminal and His body was laid to rest in a tomb, sealed and abandoned.

Was it all for nothing? Why had this happened? What had my Lord done? Soldiers were guarding the tomb, huddling round to ensure none of His followers would steal the body. Steal the body? We were utterly devastated. Terrified. The fear of arrest hung over the other disciples, any talk of riots and revolution gone now that our leader had been dealt with so ruthlessly.

So much hope, so many promises lay in tatters. Jesus was dead.

But that Sunday morning, very early, I went to the tomb. There were last rites to be performed, though how we were going to get past the stone blocking the tomb was anyone’s guess. I just knew I wanted to perform this last service for my Lord. No man had ever treated me with such love, respect and kindness. This was the least I could do.

When I arrived, the stone was not in place… the seal was gone… on the shelf inside, the grave clothes lay, neatly folded, but there was no sign of His body. I ran to find Peter and John and tell them what had happened… they came back to see… but I could not keep up with their pace and was too confused to know what to do now. By the time I arrived back at the tomb, they had gone and two men in bright white clothes were inside the tomb. They asked me why I was crying.

I tried to explain, to find out where His body had been taken. Then I saw the gardener. Surely he would know! But as I approached, he spoke. Just the one word. My name. ‘Mary.’

I’d heard that voice so many times before. It was Jesus! JESUS! Not dead, but alive again! How could this be?

Defying reason and nature, Jesus had been raised from the dead. His sacrifice for us was authenticated by the Father. All the things He had ever said were true; I really was forgiven and free!

As I look back, I remember Peter preaching to the crowds and thousands coming to believe in the Lord; I see that that one day changed history forever, for mortality was defeated and death no longer has the last word. I may die and leave this life, but Jesus, the Resurrection and the Life, will welcome me into His presence. Because He lives, I too will live. Hallelujah!