Early in the morning of the first day of the week when it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been taken away. — John 20:1
I’ve never stepped into the mouth of an empty tomb, but I have walked into my grandmother’s one-bedroom apartment three days after she died.
The emptiness choked each of us of breath as we walked in. I saw the cushions of her blue reclining chair sunken in, holding the shape of a form no longer there. My sister burst into tears, surprised by the sudden swell of grief. “I’m sorry — I was just here three weeks ago,” she said. My uncles sighed, heavy with the weight of nothing to say.
Everything sat as it had for the 15 years she made this place her home, her “cocoon,” as she called it. The crystal candlesticks from her 50th wedding anniversary. The floral drapes and matching stuffed sofa chair. The antique armoire with love letters from 1948 tucked into its drawers. The oil painting of Mount Pisgah I painted for her one Christmas when I was in college. The watercolor of First Presbyterian Church of Birmingham’s sanctuary, where they served at the height of the Civil Rights Movement. The “cousin table” crowded with photographs of her 12 grandchildren and 11 great-grandchildren, her life’s legacy.
Suddenly, every item was precious, excruciating. What now?
This was the dwelling place of her final chapter. This was where we always came, drowsy and stuffed from Christmas Day lunch, to watch a movie. This is where we gathered for birthdays with babies crawling under tables, knocking chips across the carpet. This is where we drank wine together on Monday evenings for “happy hour” when she would look at us grandchildren and say, “What’s going on? What’s new? Tell me everything.” This is where, with tension and excitement, we came to discuss details of upcoming weddings. This is where we introduced her to great-grandchildren for the first time and she told stories of our ancestors. This is where she laughed and admitted the rebellious acts of her college years, of tossing firecrackers down her dorm room stairwell. This is where we met, at her request, to plan the details of her funeral. This is where we came to sit by her side the night the ventilator kept breath in her lungs. This was the place where we learned to say goodbye.
Simon Peter entered the tomb and saw the linen cloths lying there. He saw the face cloth that had been on Jesus’ head. — John 20:6-7
I opened my grandmother’s fridge and found the half-sliced tomato I picked from our backyard garden and brought a few weeks prior. I unzipped her purse and pulled out wrinkled tissues and the lemon cough drops she would pass me in the church pew when I was a child. I held the opened envelopes strewn across her desktop computer where she continued to pay her bills and keep up with the events of the world. I found her glasses placed on the shelf of her walker, next to her notepad scribbled with medication reminders and the dates when grandchildren were out of town or celebrating birthdays. Suddenly, every item was precious, excruciating. What now?
Mary stood outside near the tomb, crying.— John 20:11
I walked to her bed where I sat just a few days before, holding her hand and gazing at the framed portrait of my deceased mother – her daughter – perched upright on her bedside table. As the ventilator hummed, I silently prayed words penned by my friend Sarah Are Speed: “Let there be you, God. Let there be. Let there be you, surrounding me.” They were the only words that would emerge in my disbelief at death’s approach.
Jesus said to Mary, “Do not hold onto me.” — John 20:17
I moved to the upholstered wingback chair where I sat a week prior when we shared our last, long conversation. “What do you think happens when we die?” she had asked me. I shrugged and postured, describing abstract ideas of a great release, a return to the heart of God.
“I want to believe that I’ll be with your mother and Ed and others who have passed on, but I’m not sure if there will be consciousness after death.” Her words surprised me. I expected something more orthodox from the devoted widow of a Presbyterian pastor.
“I look at [the trees] — how they lose their leaves every winter, and then they come back every spring. I don’t think everlasting life is exactly like that, but they give me hope.”
Then she told me about the trees. “I look at them — how they lose their leaves every winter, and then they come back every spring. I don’t think everlasting life is exactly like that, but they give me hope.”
Then Mary Magdalene left the garden tomb and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.” — John 20:18
Finally, I found my way to her apartment balcony overlooking a manicured pond and residential buildings tucked into the hillside lush with the radiance of late summer. I sat in the metal lawn chair where she sat every evening that summer with a glass of Chardonnay in hand, surrounded by potted flowers she proudly called her “victory garden.” I looked out at the trees. I waited in the stillness.
Where are you now? Sitting in that empty garden tomb, I prayed all the ancient stories and songs and scriptures and promises were true. I prayed Easter would happen again.
Written in memory of Mary Thomas Stockton Hay, April 9, 1921 – September 18, 2019.
Sitting in that empty garden tomb, I prayed all the ancient stories and songs and scriptures and promises were true. I prayed Easter would happen again.
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