That Saturday lingered, creeping as if to catch us like insects in amber as we waited. We were all on edge and hid indoors, listening for every footfall. Waiting for the knock of the traitor at the door. Fearing that nothing mattered anymore, even death, and life was void of meaning. But that’s over, don’t endure it again. 

Still, we prayed. The world went on. Dawn approached again after fitful sleep, a faint glow rising beyond the hills in the East. Maybe there is something meaningful about the sunlight waking the world each day, something real, that we all intuit. 

It was still cold as we rose and tread silently toward the garden, near the hated place of death. None of the men went with us. Only us women. Joanna, Salome, and Mary, the mother of James the younger. And me, with a lamp in one hand, to see in the tomb. As for his mother, we pleaded with her to stay, to protect her in case anything should happen. We could not lose her too.

Joanna had brought myrrh, cinnamon, olive oil, and calamus, which we’d prepared before the Sabbath and took with us. I always assumed she acquired them through her husband’s connection at court. I like to reflect on that—how the king’s money found its way indirectly toward the true king whom he had a hand in killing. Even his own power and wealth he couldn’t control. If only Herod had been wiser, better. But then, how could things have been different? They needed to happen this way. 

I was determined to bring nard and cassia too. We walked to the home of a perfumer my family and I had traded with before. I knew she would have both, and I knew her discipline, that she would be up by sunrise. 

We came to her door, and I knocked, but not too loud. She was up already. She was surprised to see me, but my purchase didn’t surprise her. I think she knew. Though I didn’t wait to explain; I didn’t want to voice the violence I had seen, or say the victim’s name. 

We passed outside, through the high walls of the ageless city. As we walked, we kept peering back in the blue-gray morning twilight, straining to make out shapes and shadows, to tell if anyone was following. There was no one we could see, and we went on undisturbed.

Soon we came near the hill, the site of execution. We circuited Golgotha, before descending to the garden. The proximity of the garden to Golgotha was haunting. As if we were in the very valley of the shadow of death, from our ancient psalm. It was so close to death there. Yet it was peaceful in a way, in the early dawn light, and solitary. The garden was gray and misty, but filling with color and light, like a cradle of newborn life.

Then Salome saw it. The stone was moved away, leaving the tomb wide open, a gaping mouth of shadow in the side of the earth. We had debated, on the way, if we could ever open the tomb. We were all astonished and pressed forward. We ducked down into the tomb. Inside, it was empty. Only a bare slab, with shroud and grave cloths laid aside. There was no body, and we were shaken. But then our gaze was lifted, as two men in dazzling white now stood there. They emanated light, somehow, and my little lamp was as nothing, like a candle before a blazing sun. I cannot describe the shock I felt. Fear fell around me, and then a feeling of warmth and heat coursed through me, despite the chill in the air. And I couldn’t move. But I remember looking away from the two figures, down at the ground, like that would be safer, and respectful. 

Their words were not less shocking. “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still with you in Galilee, ‘The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, be crucified, and on the third day rise again.’” 

Then they told us to tell the other disciples, and Peter too, that he was alive. 

I backed out of the tomb and ran back to tell the others. We all ran. I didn’t bother looking behind this time. But I don’t think I really believed what I heard. You can take in words, facts, testimony without taking in understanding or meaning. This happens more than we care to admit. Well . . . I admit that now.

We reached the city, scurried through the streets. Soon we were back in the Passover room, safe, telling them what seemed too good to be true. They didn’t believe us. Yet all four of us saw and swore the same. But four witnesses were not enough, and I can’t blame them for that. I was slow to believe my own eyes. Peter and John at least wanted to see for themselves. And I wanted to see their response, what they would think, and I didn’t want to stay confined with the others doing nothing. So Mary and I led them back to the garden and the tomb, to see again, a second time. 

The air was brighter now, and warming. Light seeped into the garden, and the garden filled and glowed with it. As we approached, Peter and John both ran ahead. That was Peter’s modus operandi, but then again he had a special reason for wanting this to be true, for wanting to see Jesus again.

It’s a mystery how different people live different experiences . . . and relationships. There was only the empty tomb this time. The sealing stone still rolled away, the tomb open. But there was nothing else. There was no other-worldly vision. There was only the empty tomb. I was afraid they might chalk all this up to so-called feminine gullibility, or infirmity. Hadn’t we suffered sickness or possession before Jesus healed us? And might we not still suffer debilitating aftereffects? Thankfully, though, such suspicions never surfaced.

They saw the massive stone, moved. They saw the emptiness of the tomb. The bare slab where the body had lain. The shroud and the cloths used to wrap the body, folded, obsolete. In the emptiness, there were only questions. If he was alive, where was he? And where were the men in white? They were there only minutes ago.

I could see they were both deep in thought when they walked away. But it seemed to me that they doubted. And I doubted. Were we really supposed to rely on two unorthodox figures clothed in brilliant blazing white? (I had never seen an angel before.) There were other sources of knowledge, but I was not thinking of them then. Worn, weak, powerless to do anything at that moment, left there alone with Mary by the tomb, with no chance to mourn or anoint our Lord’s body for burial, with no idea where he could be, alive or dead, or when we would see him, with hope mingled with fear, my tears finally flowed. Why must we wait so long for answers, for consolation? 

Mary saw me and wrapped her arms around me, resting her head against my shoulder. For a time, I was back at the foot of the cross, where I had held onto his feet, with the blood dripping down onto my hands, brushing against my face. The pain there was unspeakable, searing the soul. I hope that was not wrong. Please don’t tell anyone else, about the blood. 

But then I opened my eyes. Something prompted me to step into the tomb again, to see again its emptiness. And here I experienced another mystery. The two angels in white were there. They spoke. “Woman, why are you weeping?”

 “They have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they have laid him.” That was all I managed to say.

 Then I turned around and saw a man outside the tomb. I thought he was the gardener at first. 

 “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”

 “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

 He responded with one word, and then I knew.

 “Mary.” 

 I will never forget the love in his voice. Though I had once hoped for a worldly kind of love, even from him, a worldly love could never have been so perfect as his, so complete, so unconditional, and permanent. He had chosen to reveal himself to me and to the other Mary there first. He had chosen to provide consolation, again.

 I fell at his feet and touched his feet with my hands, and peace passed into me, and joy. Like an exile reaching home, or an orphan family. The other Mary did likewise. I couldn’t help noticing the savage wounds still showing, the feet gored by the spike for crucifixion. And I felt how strange miracles feel. Extraordinary, extravagant—but maybe somehow inevitable. 

 He placed one hand on my head, Magdalene’s, and the other on Mary’s. I felt I could have stayed there in perfect peace for hours—certainly for every hour we had waited from the crucifixion to that moment. But time always advances.

 Soon he spoke again. “Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

We rose. I turned to go, but then I turned back and just watched him, not wanting to leave. Finally, he nodded, and my mind returned to the other disciples, so we returned to tell what we had seen with our own eyes in the full light of day. 

My heart still warm and glowing, I stood before the whole gathering, taller than most, and told them, “I’ve seen our Lord. He is alive.” And I told them what he had instructed us to say. This was harder for them to dismiss, but still hard for them to believe. They wanted to see with their own eyes.

Rabbi, you know all my past, my shame, my hidden heart, my unhallowed mind, yet you honored me—a woman—and Mary too. You dared to make us your first witnesses, first of all the disciples, Apostle to the Apostles, some have said. Who could deserve that honor?

I still sell spices. But now they don’t mean mourning for me. Frankincense, myrrh, cassia, calamus, nard, cinnamon. They have become beloved reminders. Of my story. Of his story. They are not spices for death anymore. They are incense for the eternal king, burning always in remembrance. Searchers still seek for me to ask about that day. So I remember and smile and tell them the story, how his life turned our mourning into joy, like water into wine.