Fiction

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The sun has not yet sprung his weighty belly past the horizon and into my day, but no day will ever have the fullness of life in it again, because my Jesus is no longer here. And I stand sobbing and shaking and I cannot see past this stone—this solid rock—into that empty tomb that held my heart.

I clasp my hands together and let the dark air fill my lungs again while briny tears drip past my lips. I simply don’t know what to do.

I tread awkwardly into the entrance of the tomb one more time, because I cannot stand here forever, holding up the darkness. And through the blurry tears I see two figures of the brightest light, and I crumble, small and afraid.

Why am I crying? I am crying because the joy of my every moment has been stolen from me, sacrificed by those who didn’t understand. I am weeping because of this abyss of aloneness and fear and the lingering question of what I could have done to save him. Yeshua, God with us, the Prince of Peace. He is not with us. I have no peace.

I cry again while the sun musters up the courage to put legs to his promise of day.

I am crying because….

And then I hear it. I hear him say my name. And I know.

Because no one says my name the way he does.

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