Shared by Josephine Bennett
The woman sits on the side of the bed; the room is dark and her form is yet darker. She doesn’t move, she cannot, her entire being is consumed by grief. She has not slept for two nights; she is weary beyond words, but she cannot close her eyes. She dreads the image that may form behind her closed lids. She does not know how long she has sat there – many hours probably.
The darkness becomes less dense. It is a moment or two more before she realises that the darkness is gradually lifting. Her heart beats more quickly and she speaks: “Yeshiva?” and there He is, standing before her, serene, luminous, a slight smile on His lips. “You have risen – as you said you would.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes, Mother.” He holds out His hands, and she sees the wounds.
The pain she has struggled to contain begins to ease out of her body, a slight smile lights her face, and then her eyes, which have been glazed with grief, shine with wonder and joy.
She has no idea how long they were together, whether they spoke or remained in a silent, spiritual communion.
Then He says: “The women are approaching the tomb, I must meet them there.”
She nods.
And, again he, speaks: “Now you can sleep.”
The luminescence fades and, once more, she is alone in the dark. She lies down, a smile still lingering on her lips. She closes her eyes; she sleeps.
