It was a solemn day. Many of the townspeople had gathered together and were already walking down the main thoroughfare of the city of Nain. Demas had taken a little too much time to get ready and was no doubt late for the processional. Much was on his mind. Pain was everywhere in life, unavoidable and oft unbearable; but it was generally death that would send Demas into these fits of consternation. This most recent death weighed heavily on him. Nineteen years old, Demas brooded. Too young to die. It had only been a couple of years since the child’s father had died as well. With the both of them gone, the widow and now bereaved mother was alone, itself almost a death sentence in this society.
Demas finished getting dressed, putting on his sandals last before heading to the door. Leaning both hands on the door, he bowed his head until his forehead gently touched the wood. He sighed deeply. He sighed the sigh of a man in turmoil. He sighed the sigh of a man who was not suffering, but acutely felt the suffering around him. The heaviness of the pain almost brought him to his knees. Was there no healing in this land? Was there no way to relieve the pain that crippled it or the sorrow that incapacitated it? This poor widow had known nothing but worry for years now with the death of her husband followed by the drawn out sickness of her son. Today she had to bury one more body, one more lifetime of memories. Would she only find reprieve when others gathered to lay her body to rest? It was a morbid thought, but those were the only kind of thoughts Demas had been left with over the years.
Unlike the majority of people, Demas was not naïve enough to shut his eyes to what was going on around him. Every face he encountered bore both the cuts and the scars of haggard living. Bandages covered wounds, but this was not healing. A bandage can only staunch the wound; it cannot erase the indelible mark it leaves behind. No one can take that away, no matter how much he might pray for it otherwise.
Thinking of his own cuts and scars finally did bring Demas to his knees. The savage beatings. The constant rejections. The failures. These were the sum of more than forty years of life. Demas loved the stars, but he hated the sun and moon. The sun would wake him in the morning, shining cheerfully and pleasantly recounting to him the sorrows that sleep had wiped away for a few hours. The moon would keep him up at night, its doleful face reminding him of the drooping, encumbered faces of men. The stars were his only friends, millions of little dots that are so small and so huge at the same time. They spanned the width of the sky while only occupying a fraction of his view. So much like life, they were. When he could look up and only see the stars, Demas felt like someone finally understood him, and he could sleep peacefully while the stars promised to bear the burdens of mankind for the night.
A solitary tear rolled off his cheek. Composing himself, Demas rose to his feet, straightened his clothes, and walked outside. He had only to walk for a few minutes before he caught up with the funeral procession. He reached them as they were nearing the last turn before the city gates. Silence ruled the day but for a few stifled sniffles and an occasional sob. The creak of the wheels of the cart bearing the coffin made the most distracting noise. The widow stood close to the cart, one hand laying languidly on the coffin, the other being cradled by a friend. Before long, however, a new noise beyond the wheels presented itself to the mourners. A quiet muffle came from near the city gate, gradually growing in tempo and volume the closer they got. Upon turning the corner, all were surprised to see an even larger crowd walking their way.
The crowd was loud and unruly, augmented by the constrained procession, but as with the case of the funeral, the mob seemed to revolve around a single point. People were pushing and yelling, desperately attempting to reach a man walking in the center of the mass. They would touch any part of him or his clothing and then back away. The crowd continued to obliviously follow the man forward. He appeared to be the only one as yet to notice the procession heading their way. Fearful of the meaning of such a rabble, the mourners clustered together, bodies touching to bear a semblance of power. When the groups were too close to miss each other, the noisy mass took notice of the solemn occasion in front of them. They slowed down to a crawl, their yelps and cries dying down into whispers and nudges.
Though the crowd had stopped, the man at the center of their group continued onward, purposefully directing his steps towards the widow and the cart. Both crowds had now come to a complete stop, the mourning facing the jubilant, the death shroud before the festival. One of those with the man whispered hoarsely, “Jesus! What are you doing?” The name pierced Demas’ mind like a dart, allowing the light of memories to flood in unabated. The cackling of the intruding crowd and the creaking of the cart had ceased; only the scraping tread of the prophet’s sandals could be heard. He came to a stop next to the cart within a couple of feet of the widow. Glancing first at the coffin, Jesus slowly approached the mother of the deceased. Their eyes met. Jesus’ eyes were brimming with tears, his brow knit together in a look of powerful compassion. The two of them shared an understanding.
The widow broke the look as a fresh burst of tears fought their way to the surface. Sobs and moans escaped her throat, tumbling over each other in confusion and pain. The sound of it wrenched the hearts of all present, perhaps Jesus most of all. Reaching up with his right hand extended towards the widow, he implored in a ragged, broken voice, “Do not weep.” With a few more sniffles, she did master her tears, gazing expectantly at the face of the prophet for she knew not what.
Keeping his hand raised, Jesus laid his left on the side of the open coffin. Both groups surged forward, the newcomers expectant, the mourners defensive. The sorrow-filled voice was now gone as he commanded with authority, “Young man, I say to you, arise.” A tide of frustration rushed through the people at these words. Mutters of anger were turned to shouts of shock when the upper torso of the young man emerged from the coffin. The once dead child rubbed his eyes and gaped at the crowd as they gaped at him.
Jesus took the man by the shoulder and reintroduced him to the world of the living. Fear and awe dominated the scene. Murmurs of praise and terror spread throughout the city like fire. Only Demas remained silent. When the child had uttered his first phrase from beyond the grave, Demas had once again fallen on his knees, badly shaken. It was not fear that brought him down, but the most complete joy that he had ever felt. He had only to look at the faces of the mother and son to know ... to know that there was hope. One suffering, one sorrow had been removed. It was a small consolation for all the pain in the world, but the fact remained that it been taken away. Healing had occurred, not only of the child, but of Demas. For the first time, he searched for the memories that had haunted him all his life and they were lost.
Demas, tears still blurring his eyes, returned to his feet and peered back at the cart where the dead had already departed. The prophet was still there and Demas realized that he was not the only one that was silent. They exchanged looks and Demas felt for a moment that he could see the reflection of his inner sorrows reflected in the depths of those healing eyes. Yet they no longer troubled him; the eyes overcame the pain. Those eyes would always overcome the pain from now on.
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