I often wonder what it would have been like to be Mary Magdalene, walking with the other women in the dark to the tomb of her teacher and friend.

I am waiting on You
You say You’re good to those who wait

I imagine that her heart was heavier than her arms, laden with spices and oils used for preparing bodies for burial. Her eyes were probably swollen with dried tears; her robes caked with dust from huddling in some small corner, waiting out the previous Sabbath.

my heart’s discouraged
so I come to You, expectant
You say You’re good to those who wait

What would be more difficult for her – watching her Savior be tortured and executed, or the miserable waiting that came next? The mourning and despair, or the resulting silence from the heavens, while her friends, Jesus’s own friends, hid themselves away out of fear?

oh, wretched man that I am
free me from my distraction
You say You’re good to those who wait

Would she feel helpless with every passing hour that Sabbath day? Would she watch the first streaks of gray break the black night of her mandated waiting and mutter a half-hearted thanks to the God that just allowed His own Son to be killed?

then confession and repentance
find me in the quiet
You say You’re good to those who wait

I can see the way she takes quiet, desperate steps down the path, through the garden, to the borrowed tomb.

And she stops.

In some accounts, there’s a violent earthquake. In some, an angel scares the guards so much, they fall to the ground “as dead men.” And in another, Mary weeps outside the empty tomb, trapped in her misunderstanding and grief.

“Woman, why are you crying?” ask the two angels sitting just inside.

oh, my soul
wait on the Lord
keep your lamp filled with oil

Mary doesn’t seem to even blink at their presence; “They’ve taken my Lord away,” she answers. “And I don’t know where they’ve put Him.”

If I were Mary, my unsaid question would be: And I don’t know what to do next. What do I do next? How do I fix this?

oh, my soul
be not deceived
wait for Him; don’t be quick to leave

“Woman, why are you crying?” asks another voice, and Mary looks straight into the face of her Lord, but she is so distressed and unbelieving that she does not recognize the man she is desperate to find.

“Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.” At least that will give me something to do. This wretched waiting is killing me.

“Mary,” says Jesus, and her eyes are finally opened.

It’s just one word, but it lifts her burden.

Mary has no work to do. She has no body to prepare; no final resting place to find in lieu of a borrowed one. In all her agonizing waiting, in all her plans and worries and seeking ways to fix or control or soothe, Jesus has done the work.

In all my agonizing waiting, all my plans and worries and list-making and seeking ways to fix or control or soothe, Jesus has done all the saving work.

There is nothing left to be done, because He’s made all things – including Mary, including me – new.

There is only the good news, and the swift feet and joyous lips with which Jesus charges us to carry it.

He is not here! He is alive!

Lord, today You know what I need to do
but You could do more in my waiting
than in my doing I could do
so I won’t run anymore
I’m waiting on You

*song: To Those Who Wait, Bethany Dillon
*image: shereadstruth.com