The widow at Nain

[Journey with Jesus – Day 10]

Life had never been easy, but rather, full of grief. I had cried many tears – the first when my poor baby girl died in infancy; a few years later, it was eldest son who was taken away by a fever when he was just a boy. His brother was stronger; and survived, thank Yahweh; then we were both weeping when my dear husband died and suddenly the boy was forced to become a man. He was only twelve years old but had to start working and take on responsibilities. He changed from that day. The joy and laughter that had filled our small home was gone. The years passed and we got by. I would look after our physical needs, baking bread, cooking our food, keeping our house and clothes clean while he earned money to pay for it all. He worked hard, but never complained.

Then, one day, I was readying our first meal of the day when I noticed he hadn’t come out from his room. Filled with horror, I went in and, seeing him, I put my hand to my mouth. My dear husband had looked that way just days before he died. I sent for help, paid what little money I had to the doctors to do what they could to help, but he got worse. Neighbours gathered to offer their sympathies as if he were dead already. Then a man approached me. “We need to prepare him.” I dimly nodded and watched as my poor boy, my only son, was wrapped in cloth – ready for burial. Though he was still breathing, shallower and shallower, he looked dead already. I held his hand and waited until, with a shudder, his chest rose and fell and then didn’t rise again. It was over. Women from the village began to weep and wail loudly. I buried my head in his chest. The tears I wept were silent.

The moments after went by in a blur. I was joined by a couple of other women and we anointed my son’s body. Then it was laid on a plank of wood. A few more gathered ready for the procession that was horribly familiar to me. We had walked this way for my husband and our children before that. We stepped into the bright daylight and began. Ahead of me were two flautists, and one woman who was wailing. Four men carried my son and I walked behind them. I was vaguely aware of the people who stood and watched as we made our way through the streets and out of the town towards the burial ground, where a cave which already had claimed my husband and children, would be the final resting place for my own child. And then it hit me. What would I do now? Who would provide for me? Who would care for my needs when I grew old? Who would bury me? I was completely, utterly on my own.

My eyes had been fixed on the plank of wood that bore my son when I became aware of a commotion coming towards us as we had just come out of the village gate. There were lots of people approaching. I wondered what it was, but didn’t really care – they weren’t there for me, and nothing seemed to matter any more.

But then I became aware of a man who stepped out of the crowd towards me. He was a complete stranger, but I looked at his face and was shocked to see tears streaming down it. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Please don’t cry.”

He stepped forward and touched the coffin. The pallbearers stopped, presumably wondering what was going on. So was I. I was about to say something, when the man spoke again.

“Young man, I tell you: Get up.”

I confess my immediate thought was how futile this was as he was clearly dead. I was going to say something when, to my utter astonishment, my son stirred and, still wrapped in his burial clothes, got up. Immediately the pallbearers lowered him to the ground. He started speaking, but couldn’t, due to the cloths around his face, so he tore it up and said, “Mama! Where are we? What’s happening?”

The man who had stopped the procession had stopped weeping, but instead had an enormous grin on his face. He reached down, and helped my son to his feet.

“Dear woman,” he said, “Your son.”

I stepped forward and embraced them both.

Through sobs, of joy this time, I breathed words of thanks. I had my son back. I had my life back. The man responsible stepped away and I looked at him and those around us. The looks of amazement matched my own. One of the pallbearers shook his head, saying, “A great prophet has risen amongst us,” and another chimed in, “God has visited his people.”

God had visited his people and I was the recipient of this incredible kindness. I don’t know why he chose me, but I was determined to live my whole life in gratitude for what he did for me that day.