Mary of Magdala had a hard time rising on that second day of the Feast of Unleavened Bread. She lay quietly on the small platform bed, lay quietly as the sun underwent its daily birth and cast its radiant beams upon the earth beneath. She was awake but paralyzed with the thoughts of her fallen friend. Despite the bright rays that bathed her tiny body, only darkness dwelt in Mary’s soul, for another Son had set the previous day. Both died, Mary thought, but only one would rise again. Only one was daily reborn.
She forced her leg from beneath her blanket and rolled out of bed, the dirt of the floor cold between her toes. Sunbeams hit the dusty air, creating spears of light that cast radiant patterns about her feet. Most days she’d have welcomed the sunbeams as her dearest friends, but today the incandescent spears reminded her only of the javelin that had pierced her Savior’s side the night before. She cringed at the sunlight’s stabs.
Mary slowly unwound her sindon, the white linen sheet in which she slept, thinking as she undressed of the fine linen in which they’d wrapped her departed Master. Only He would never awake as she had. He would never shed His sindon at the beginning of a new day, for no new days would dawn for her fallen friend–only the cold, dark nights of Arimathea’s tomb.