One year ago yesterday, the first case of COVID-19 was recorded in Michigan. Today, nearly 16,000 people have died from the virus in my state. I realize some will dispute that figure. Take your arguments elsewhere. Sixteen thousand Michiganians are dead, most of whom would be alive if they hadn’t contracted the virus. And many others this past year have died of cancer, heart disease, automobile accidents, crib death, violence, and so on. Thousands upon thousands of hearts have been broken. Children have lost beloved parents and grandparents. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, feel the wrenching grief of losing their son or daughter or sibling. All in one year. Many family members never even got to say good-bye, or touch their loved one one last time, or have a proper funeral.
And many more besides carry within them the sorrow of losses that extend further back, even many years. My own mother passed away two years ago, and there are times when the sadness still hits me, as it no doubt will in the years to come. For there is no replacing a loved one, and while grieving loses its raw edge and changes with the times of our lives, it doesn’t just go away.
It is for those of us who have lost a loved one that I wrote this piece years ago, in November 2012. I know that not everyone will receive it. But for those of you who trust in Jesus, it may bring hope, comfort, and peace to your heart. Please share it freely with whomever you wish.
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Martha’s Story
When he finally showed up, it was far too late. At least, that’s how it seemed. My heart was already doubly shattered. My brother was dead, and the only one who could have done anything to prevent his death hadn’t lifted a finger.
It’s not like he didn’t get ample notice. When Lazarus first got ill, Mary and I took it in stride. People get sick and they recover, after all. But our brother’s condition steadily worsened over the next several days, and when he drifted into incoherence, our concern changed to alarm.
“I’m scared of where this is going,” said Mary, verbalizing my own thoughts. “We need to send for Jesus.”
So we did. A family friend hastened to where Jesus was staying, bearing our urgent message: Lazarus is terribly sick. We know how much you love him. Please come.
We waited anxiously. It would take time for word to reach Jesus and time for him to respond. But time wasn’t working on our behalf. The next day, Lazarus went from incoherent to comatose. Mary and I huddled together by his bedside, dread and numb denial knotting our stomachs. The sun slipped past its zenith, its rays slanting gradually longer. Friends came and went, checking in on us, saying little, for there was little to say. During the night on into the dawn, we watched our brother’s breathing grow shallow . . . shallower . . . then sporadic, long seconds straggling by between breaths, his chest barely rising.
Shortly after sunrise, it rose one last time, barely perceptibly, and then rose no more. Death’s terrible mystery had transpired.
Mary and I held each other. We took turns stroking our brother’s forehead, smoothing his hair, kissing his cheeks, our tears wetting his face. Our brother, our baby brother. In my memory, I saw him again as a toddler, running along after me on his bandy little legs, those black ringlets of hair framing his laughing face. He had so loved to laugh! Even as he grew older, old enough to tease me as brothers will do their sisters, it was always in a way that found humor for both of us—for Lazarus was not only a bright spirit but a kind one, and those qualities matured as he grew into manhood. Everyone loved my brother. No wonder that Jesus did too.
Where, then, was Jesus? Where was the friend I loved and trusted most when it mattered most? With my own eyes, I had seen him heal people, and I mean grievously ill people. Jesus did things that couldn’t be easily explained. Men lame from their childhood walked. The blind saw, some for the first time in their lives. People afflicted with the horrible, disfiguring disease called leprosy regained perfect health. All in a moment of time. All at a mere word from Jesus, or perhaps a touch.
With a single, stern command, he had evicted the demons that tormented my own sister. The change in Mary had been instant and dramatic. Her eyes had cleared, a gray heaviness seemed to lift from her, and suddenly the sparkling, sensitive young woman who two years prior had vanished into some dark internal chamber was back again, entirely herself, and she had remained unclouded ever since.
But what Jesus had done for others or done in the past mattered little today. We had needed him now, desperately, but he hadn’t come. And we had counted him our closest friend, like one of the family. It was hard not to feel betrayed.
We prepared Lazarus’s body for burial, wondering whether Jesus might not still arrive at any minute. But he never did. Relatives, friends, and religious leaders convened, the hired mourners gathered, and we placed our brother in the tomb, but Jesus never showed. Mary and I entered our time of grief without him.
It was not until three days later—three days—that visitors from nearby Jerusalem brought word of Jesus’s arrival. “We passed him on the road,” they told me. “He is on his way into town and is asking for you.”
I dashed out the door and ran to meet him. Heaven knows why—he had taken his own sweet time when I called for him. Yet when he called for me, I dropped everything and rushed to where he and his disciples were making their way down the road.
Jesus’s eyes met mine as I drew near. Picking up his pace, he strode toward me, and for whatever thoughts I had entertained to the contrary, the look on his face plainly showed the depth of his care and concern. In the next moment, his arms were around me, and whatever emotional reserves I had unraveled. I clung to him, sobbing uncontrollably, and for a minute he did nothing but hold me.
Finally, I regained enough composure to speak. “Lord,” I said, the tears coursing down my cheeks, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Then I added, “Even now, I know that whatever you ask of God, he will give you.” Odd, those words. From what source of hope had they sprung?
“Your brother will rise again,” Jesus replied.
“I know that he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day,” I said, miserably. But I thought, words, words. The promise of some future resurrection seemed infinitely far off, too remote to touch the wrenching reality of my brother’s death. I didn’t want tomorrow’s hope; I wanted Lazarus back today.
Cupping my wet cheeks in his hands, Jesus tilted my face upward so that I was looking into his eyes. To my surprise, I saw that they, like mine, were filled with tears.
“Martha,” he said—and gentle though it was, his voice, like his gaze, was intense, searching out something deep within me. “Martha, my beloved friend, listen to me. Listen. The resurrection is not some vague future event. It is more than just a concept, Martha. It is more even than a promise of God. It is a person, someone who knows you and loves you and whom you yourself know and love. It is me, Martha. I am the resurrection, and I am the life. Whoever believes in me will live even if he dies. And everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. I, not death, am the final authority.”
His eyes peered earnestly into mine. “Do you believe this, Martha?” he asked me.
Did I believe.
I will tell you this: When you stand face to face with Jesus and he looks into the very core of who you are, there is no wonderful thing that you will not believe of him. Whatever he tells you, no matter how impossible it seems, you know that it is true.
“Yes, Lord,” I said, my sorrow mingling with awe. “I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who has come into the world.”
He stepped back, still looking at me, and for a moment, a smile lit his face. Then his expression turned solemn again, and he said, “Where is Mary?”
“Back at the house,” I replied. “I will go get her.”
I hurried back home to my sister. “Jesus wants to see you,” I told her. Mary said nothing, but like me, wasting no time, she darted out the door and down the road. I trailed behind, accompanied by a small cloud of friends and leaders from Jerusalem who had gathered in our home. Up ahead, I saw my sister fall at Jesus’s feet; watched him stoop down and crouch with her there in the dust for a bit, his arm enfolding her; saw him lift her up gently as I approached. Again I saw the tears in his eyes. Whatever the reason had been for his delay, I no longer questioned his love for Lazarus, Mary, or me. His timing, yes, but not his love.
“Where have you laid your brother?” Jesus asked. Mary, daubing her eyes with her sleeve, said, “Come and see,” and she and I led him and his disciples toward the tomb. The others followed behind. I could hear them murmuring.
“See his tears. He really loved Lazarus.”
“Oh, he did? Then why didn’t he keep him from dying? He’s healed others. Couldn’t he have done as much for a friend?”
Jesus heard too, and it registered. He stopped, bowed his head, and covered his face with his hands. An anguished groan escaped him, issuing from a source seemingly deeper even than my brother’s death, and for half a minute, his shoulders shook in silent grief. Then, straightening up, he wiped his eyes, and the sorrow in his face gave way to an entirely different expression as he approached Lazarus’s tomb in the hillside. I had seen that look before—a look of resolve, even of veiled anger.
“Take away the stone,” he said, meaning the great, circular stone that blocked the entrance to the tomb.
He couldn’t be serious. My brother’s body was now beyond lifeless—it was well into decay. “Lord,” I said, “he has been dead four days now. The stench will be terrible.”
He turned and looked at me once again—but oh! The difference now in those sienna eyes! They flashed with a golden light, and in them I saw—what? Intensity? Mastery? Yes, and more. Above all, I swear that I saw joy—deep, exultant joy.
“Did I not tell you, Martha, that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”
“Yes, Lord,” I whispered, wonderingly. Then, turning to four of the young men who stood nearby, I gestured toward the tomb. “Remove the stone,” I said. The men stared at me in surprise, then shrugged, and, straining against the massive slab, rolled it off to the side. From the bowels of the crypt, like the fetid breath of an old hag, issued the palpable smell of death.
All eyes were riveted on Jesus. But he seemed hardly aware of the crowd. Indeed, standing there before the tomb entrance in the afternoon sun, he seemed at the same time to be in a different place altogether. Turning his face skyward, he spoke, loudly enough for us all to hear.
“Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I know that you always hear me, but for the sake of these people who are gathered around, I’m saying this, so they will believe that you have sent me.”
Complete silence. All you could hear was the rustle of the wind through the olive trees and the distant trill of a songbird. But the air seemed suddenly alive—portentous and charged with energy. Jesus lowered his gaze and faced the tomb, his hands at his side.
“Lazarus!” he called, loudly.
What? Lazarus can’t hear you. Lazarus is dead.
“LAZARUS!” he cried again, commandingly, and power coursed through his voice.
“COME FORTH!”
Standing just off to the left of Jesus and a little behind him, from whence I had an angling view into the tomb’s dim interior, I was among the first to see it happen. At the sound of Jesus’s voice, my brother’s body arched spasmodically on its stone slab. His legs and arms began to strain and jerk in an effort to loosen the linen burial fabric that bound them. “Lazarus!” I screamed. “Oh! Oh! Lazarus! My brother!”
Others saw now too, and I will leave you to imagine for yourself the pandemonium that ensued as Lazarus, struggling into a sitting position, lowered his feet to the ground, stood up, and tottered into the sunlight at the entrance of the sepulcher. Women shrieked. Men gasped and dropped to their knees in awe—for what greater miracle can one possibly behold than a dead man returning to life? As for the religious leaders, who were far from fond of Jesus, their faces grew flushed and hard. It was impossible to tell what they were thinking—but who cared what they were thinking? My brother was alive! Alive from the dead!
And not very happy, it seemed. Through the hubbub of the crowd, I heard the muffled yell of a voice I knew well: “Get me out of this stuff!”
Jesus turned to Mary and me. “You heard him,” he said, with a gleam in his eye. “Take off his grave clothes and let him go.”
We wasted no time, but rushed to our brother, embracing him, pulling the wrappings off of his face and smothering him with kisses and tears. If it seems like Mary and I were altogether too emotional, consider the circumstances and ask yourself whether you would have acted much differently.
Fortunately for Lazarus, we did have enough presence of mind to undo his bindings, and in short order his feet were free to stand solidly and his arms to enfold us in a hug. He was weak, but what would you expect? He hadn’t just been sick—he had been dead. Now, however, the horrible odor of death had faded away entirely, and in its place I smelled only the faint perfume of wildflowers on the wind. The smell of living things, of life itself.
I glanced over at Jesus. He still stood there several yards away, watching quietly and smiling broadly. He locked eyes with me and began to laugh—a rich, unrestrained laugh, resonant with gladness. Heaven itself must have joined in that laughter, and how could I not? Laughing and weeping, both at once—oh, but I was a mess!—I ran to him and fell at his feet. “Thank you!” I said. “Oh, Master, thank you, thank you! I can never thank you enough!”
Gently he crouched down and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Martha, my dear daughter,” was all he said. But in that moment, it was all my heart needed to make my joy complete.
Later, back at the house, Peter and John confirmed what I had come to suspect. “He knew all along what he was going to do,” said Peter. “When he got word of Lazarus’s illness, we figured that he would head for Bethany immediately. We were puzzled by his delay.”
“Right,” said John. “Then a couple days later, he told us that Lazarus had died. Actually, what he said was that Lazarus was sleeping, and he was going to go and wake him up. ‘Why?’ we said. ‘If he sleeps, he’ll get better.’ That’s when he explained that Lazarus was dead. But I have to tell you, I didn’t at all understand what he was about. Not that I do most of the time anyway.”
My own mind was lost in thought. By now it was night time, and the throng of visitors had dispersed. Across the room, I could see Mary, Jesus, and Lazarus talking in the most casual way, their voices low, their faces lit by the warm lamplight. It was the same scene you could have witnessed in scores of homes throughout the town. But its very ordinariness was part of its marvel.
What manner of man is this, I wondered. In different circumstances from mine, but no less dramatic, his disciples had once asked that same question. It had been their natural response to Jesus’s mastery over a storm that threatened to swamp their boat and drown them all in the Sea of Galilee. As for me, today I had witnessed his power over death itself. He had given me my brother back from the grave. But he had also given me something else: a new depth of knowing him that I could never have experienced had he simply shown up right when I wanted him to.
“I am the resurrection and the life”—that had been the hope he offered me at a time when all seemed lost. Now, in contemplating those words, I realized they were the greatest hope he could offer any of us. For death, when we face it, is so real—so heartbreaking when it takes a loved one; so terrifying when it comes for us; and so overmastering, unrelenting, utterly uncaring, and final in its effect—that the promise of a resurrection must be more than mere theology if it is to be of any comfort to us at all. It must be as tangible as death itself, and even more.
So the resurrection ceased to be merely a proposition and became a person, and that person entered my life and became my friend. Someone whom I knew and loved and trusted with all my heart. Someone with a voice and a personality, who felt with me, wept with me, laughed with me, held me, rejoiced with me, and called me by my name, Martha. Someone who loved me—and, yes, for all my foibles and painful imperfections, liked me and enjoyed being with me.
There can be no resurrection apart from some kind of a death. It may be a physical death. It may be the death of a cherished relationship or the loss of a dream. But I know now that the resurrection is real—for I know the Resurrection, and he knows me. And of all the many things that he is to me—my King, my Redeemer, and so much more—among them I count this: that he is my friend and I am his. And he will never fail me nor betray my trust in him.
There came a time, many years later, when my brother once again fell asleep. I myself joined him not long after, and Mary came to be with us by and by. That was long ago. Since then, the dust of the centuries has swept over us, and the place where our bones repose has vanished from human knowledge. Generations have passed, each busier than the last, culminating in this frantic, proud, brilliant, broken, suffering, self-centered, fool’s-gold world that you call your own. It too shall pass, and you yourself will one day sleep.
But there is One who does not sleep—One and only One. One who is supremely awake both in body and in spirit. How do I know? Because I know him and he knows me. Though my own body has returned to the dust, I am alive as never before. Falling asleep was just the act of my awakening to something far greater, for to be absent physically is to be present with my Lord, with the Firstborn from among the dead—present with Life himself. And the greater fulfillment of his promise is forthcoming and certain. One day, his voice will sound again on the earth. He will call my name, and at the sound of his voice, I will arise in a glorified body to a world made new, along with Lazarus and Mary and countless other of my brothers and sisters across the ages whose names he knows as only he can.
For he is who he says he is. There is no lie in him. And the words he spoke to me long ago on that hopeless road to my brother’s tomb, he says to you today:
I am the resurrection and the life.
Whoever believes in me will live even if he dies. And everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.
Do you believe this?
Do you?
Perhaps, as once was true of me, you sometimes doubt your own heart. But there is a difference between trusting in your faith and trusting in Jesus.
I believe that you believe—in him.
