Light from an open window dimmed as a reddened sun sank below the horizon. Yet, my eyes did not waver from the bed I crouched over. Silently, a tear ran down my cheek as I stroked the ashen face of my ill brother, Lazarus. Water from a twisted rag dripped aimlessly down his face. My brother’s copper hair lay in tangles, and his closed eyes showed no signs of life.
“Mary,” a voice said, interrupting my thoughts.
Slowly, I turned to see the silhouette of my sister, Martha, standing in the doorway. She entered the room, holding a tray of pita bread for me to eat. Brown curls, much similar to my own, hung down her back over her russet colored muslin robe tied with a crimson sash. Moving toward, me, Martha said, “Come, eat, and get some rest, Mary. I’ll watch Lazarus. Please?” Gingerly, Martha set the tray of bread down next to me.
“No, I cannot leave him, Martha!” I wailed, clutching Lazarus’s thin, cold hands. “If only Jesus were here.”
“Jesus,” Martha uttered bitterly. “Jesus could heal Lazarus. What could he possibly be doing that is more important? He does not care if our brother lives or dies.”
My jaw tightened. Certainly, I knew Jesus did care, desperately, about my family. Many times, we housed the young Jewish man with his array of friends. Although Martha thought of Jesus as a wise teacher, I knew Jesus, somehow, was more. I adored his lively eyes, his hearty voice, and his gentle, calloused hands.
“He will come,” I stated, taking a piece of bread. Yet, it tasted dry in my mouth and stubbornly remained in my throat. Martha shrugged defiantly as she sat down next to me. As the night drew on, Martha and I drifted off to sleep by Lazarus’s bed. When morning arrived, Martha and I restlessly slept, our backs against the moist wall. Lazarus lay dead, and a pungent odor permeated the thick air.
Four days later, Lazarus’s body lay in an eerie, algid tomb. Martha stood behind me, staring blankly at the tomb carved into the side of a mountain. I lay crumpled on the ground, my body writhing in agony. Around us, neighbors and friends stood quietly crying. What had kept Jesus? Then, suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me, and a deep, resonating voice.
“Lord,” Martha was saying, “if you would have been here, Lazarus would not have died.”
Then, I felt hands of strength wrap around my shoulders and pull me out of the dirt. Staring at Jesus’ deep, brown eyes, I felt pathetic, as tears streaked my dirt-stained face. My knees gave away, and Jesus pulled me tight to him. Suddenly, I felt his body quiver, and large tears dripped down on my head.
Pulling away from his grip, I fell to my knees. “Jesus,” I said, “my brother would not have died if you had been here!” Again, Jesus pulled me out of the dirt. His gaze of love abruptly calmed my fears.
“Martha,” Jesus commanded, looking at my sister, “move the tombstone away.”
“But Jesus,” Martha objected, “Lazarus has been dead for four days.”
“Move it away, Martha,” Jesus repeated.
With the help of those around us, Martha removed the stone. Suddenly, a stench vibrated out of the tomb, and all standing around us held their noses in disgust. Jesus, however, stood unwavering. “Lazarus,” he said in a commanding voice, “come out!”
Gasps went out from the crowd as a haunting figure, wrapped in grave clothes, staggered out of the tomb. I screamed for joy, and Martha and I ran to our brother, rapturously embracing him. “Martha, Lazarus,” I whispered. “Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God.” Jesus stood behind me, his eyes laughing with pleasure.
“I believe,” Martha whispered. “My Lord, I believe.”