"How It Began"- A short story from the perspective of Mary Magdalene

Dear Catholic Teen Life Readers,

As part of my history text for the school year, I have to choose a project to complete each month. This month I chose the following prompt: Read the Gospel Accounts of the Resurrection and write a narrative explaining the events beginning Holy Saturday night and going up to Christ’s first appearance to all His apostles in the upper room on Easter Sunday morning.

I chose to write the narrative from the perspective of Saint Mary Magdalene. This narrative is entirely fictional, although based on the information about the Ressurection contained in the Gospels, and I've used my creativity to come up with the details. Mary is the subject of a great amount of speculation, and so for the sake of simplicity I've based her character only on Biblical descriptions.

I had a lot of fun with this project and wanted to share it with you all :-)

I'm considering adding on to this short story so that it includes a (fictional) account of all the events that took place from Holy Thursday to Good Friday. If you enjoy this type of writing and think I should continue, please let me know in the comments section below (Or through the contact form on the home page)! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

~Catholic Teen

How It Began- A short story from the perspective of Mary Magdalene

Saturday Evening

“What do we do now, Peter? We can’t intrude on these poor people’s lives forever!”

“I know, Mary. But it’s safer this way for now. We don’t know what’s going on out there.”

“Fine.”

He turned and walked away, apparently satisfied by my response. “That’s all he’ll get.” I thought. I walked back to the corner of the room where Joanna, Salome, and Mary, James’ mother, were sitting.

“It’s no use. He won’t make a decision.” I sighed as I slumped down against the rocky wall behind us. We’d been hiding in the upper room since Jesus died on Friday. The child in the family downstairs had been healed by Christ on Wednesday, and the family had been kind enough to let us stay in their attic for a while so we could be together while we grieved and figured out what to do next. But we had to do something. We couldn’t hide forever.

“Pray for them, Mary.” Joanna said softly, always the rational, supportive one of the bunch. “They have a big decision to make.”

“Yeah. I know. But we must do something. We can’t just sit here forever.” I glanced around at the other people in the room. Peter and James sat in the opposite corner, discussing what to do next. John sat with Mary in the other corner by the fire that Matthew had built, holding her hand while she cried softly. The rest of the men sat in groups throughout the room, talking in hushed voices. Andrew had already laid his cloak on the floor and was ready to sleep after a long day of doing, well, nothing.

“Let’s go to the tomb in the morning and take the spices with us. You’re absolutely right, Mary, we must do something.” Salome said after a moment.

“Yes. That’s something we can hopefully do without making too much of a disturbance. I still can’t believe they actually killed Him. They said they would, but I just can’t believe it."

A while later the four of us removed our cloaks and laid down on them on the floor as we’d done the night before. John stood up from the corner of the room where he was with Mary. He brought her over to us and gave her his cloak to lay on, as hers was soaked with tears.

“Goodnight, Imma!” John said, kissing her on the cheek. While He was hanging on the cross, Jesus told John to take her into his home, and Mary that John was now her son. The two had developed a bond before then, so it was a beautiful privilege that Jesus had given to the two of them. I think it’s so sweet how he already calls her Imma. (Imma means mamma in Hebrew)

As the room slowly became quieter except for Andrew’s quiet snores, I felt tears dripping down my cheeks. This happens sometimes. I become numb with pain, not even letting myself feel it until late at night when I’m sure no one else will know. When I was young and my parents still allowed me into their home, I had to keep my feelings inside of me. My father was a cruel man. Then when he tossed me out, leaving me to fend for myself once I became possessed, I had no one to talk to in my clear moments. I kept all of my emotions bottled up inside, like a grape, overripened and needing to burst forth. Once Jesus healed me I became a new person. I was so emotional for a long time, overwhelmed by the love with which He had treated me. But then He was gone. And I felt like I needed to be strong for everyone else, so I only allowed myself to feel the pain late at night or when I knew they couldn't see. This was no exception. The first person in this world to treat me with dignity had died. I had to grieve but didn’t quite know how. Even now, five years later, living out in the desert, alone, I still need to mourn what happened even though I know how the story ends. Or shall I say, begins?

Sunday Morning

It was so early that the sun had only just begun to lighten the room. Only the four of us were awake. Joanna began gathering the spices that she’d hidden in the folds of her cloak after we left the tomb on Friday. As quietly as we could, only stopping to tell Peter where we were going, (at which he looked me straight in the eyes and said “be careful.” Before rolling over to go back to sleep.) we slipped down the stairs from the room, pulling our veils closer to our faces as we stepped onto the road.

The sun dawned in the sky, more beautiful than I’d ever seen it before. About two miles later, as we climbed the hill leading to the garden where the tomb was, I ran up ahead of the other women. They are older and slower than I, and Joanna, though younger, stayed by their side. I was only twenty at the time.

I crested the hill, seemingly walking into the sunrise. At the bottom was the garden where the tomb was in which they’d buried Jesus. The tears began to fall, and for once, I allowed them to. I shivered as I crossed the threshold into the garden. As I turned the corner to enter the gate where the tomb was, I stopped in my tracks. The stone had been rolled back. I peered inside. Nothing.

I sank to my knees, sobbing. “All of that and now they’ve stolen His body. How could anyone be so cruel?”

I heard footsteps behind me. Thinking it was the other women, I did not turn around.

A man’s voice came from behind me. He must’ve been standing about five feet away. “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?”

“They have taken my Lord, and I don’t know where they laid Him.” I gasped out between sobs.

“He must be the gardener.” I thought. “Maybe he knows what happened.”

“Sir, if you carried him away, tell me where you laid him, and I will take Him.”

“Mary!” The man’s voice changed as he spoke my name with the utmost tenderness. My heart stopped. It was the voice of my Lord.

“Rabbouni!” I cried out, turning and throwing myself at His feet. His face was radiant with love as it had been, even bloodied and bruised as he hung on the cross.

He leaned down and embraced me, allowing me to cry in his arms. After a moment He stood, drawing me up along with Him. He looked directly into my eyes and said with a small smile, “Mary, stop holding on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and tell them, ‘ I am going to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”

“Yes, Rabbi! I said, tears filling my eyes yet again, “I will go!”

I turned and ran to the gate, glancing behind me as I did. The other women were just arriving. “He’s there!” I cried out through my tears, now of joy.

I ran back to the upper room and told Peter and John what I’d seen. They didn’t seem to believe me. I could still sometimes tell that Peter still saw me as that crazy girl who’d been possessed and then healed by the Messiah. Jesus became my life. My everything. And on top of that, I am a woman. Who would listen to me? Nevertheless, the men ran off to the tomb, doubting my testimony but yet with a spark of hope in their hearts.

11 a.m. Sunday

The other women gathered around me, their tongues alight with happy speech and giggles of disbelief for the first time in a while.

“An angel was there! And oh, Mary, it was unlike anything I’ve ever seen!”

“He said that Jesus is risen and to come and tell Peter!”

I relayed to the rest of the men all that had happened. They also were skeptical of what we had seen.

Just then we heard the thunder of footsteps as Peter and John raced up the stairs.

“Well, Mary," Peter said as they burst into the room, “There were no angels or visions or anything of the sort, but something strange is happening. The stone is rolled away, as you said, and the burial cloth was folded neatly. Not something robbers would do.”

John said softly, “The Jews will think we stole His body and staged this to cause trouble. We must hide. The family downstairs says we may stay as long as necessary.” He locked the door behind him as he said this.

The men began to murmur among themselves, only adding to their worry as they discussed possibilities of what may have happened. We women sat in the corner further discussing what we had seen. We all knew in our hearts that it was true and were not afraid. Jesus was alive! He would certainly do something to let us know what to do next.

Later in the afternoon, Jesus’ mother remarked, “He said this would happen, did He not? If they only believe they will be at peace.”

6 p.m. Sunday

Thomas had gone out to beg for some bread in the marketplace, spreading ashes over his face from our fire to make himself seem dirty like a beggar. The men continued to worry while we waited for him to come back with whatever morsels he could find. They were so afraid of what might happen to them. They looked at us as if we were crazy when we laughed, and once, we even began singing as Joanna tried to recall the song the angels had sung as they'd praised God!

As the men talked among themselves, and John sat with Mary, there was suddenly a flash of light. We all sat up straight, startled.

“Peace be with you.” A voice came from the far corner of the room where the family’s old table and chairs sat. We all turned and looked.

“Jesus” voices breathed from all around the room. The room filled with light and laughter as everyone tried to comprehend what they were seeing. Peter began to sob uncontrollably. Mary ran to her son. He embraced her and sat her down on one of the chairs.

He wordlessly displayed his hands and feet with the nail marks in them. When they’d taken Him down from the cross we had not had time to clean His wounds before the sun went down and the Sabbath began, so He had been dirty and bloodied. Now all that remained were the holes in his flesh where the nails had been and the wound in His side where he had been pierced.

He walked to each of us, embracing us one by one and saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” before He moved to the next person. Everyone gathered was either crying or laughing uncontrollably by the time Jesus got to each of us.

He then turned to the men and, looking Peter directly in the eyes, said, “Whose sins you forgive are forgiven. Whose sins you retain are retained.”

Jesus remained with us a while longer, about half of an hour, before He disappeared out the door. We peered out the window to see which direction He went, but we did not even see Him leave the house.

I was overjoyed. I did not even try to comprehend what had happened. All that mattered was that He was alive. The Messiah, the man whom our people waited for thousands of years, had been killed. But now He was alive.

Thomas returned to the room with a small amount of food, startled by all we told him had occurred, and refused to believe, saying, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger into the nail marks and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”

He became annoyed with all of our babbling and tears of joy and retired to his cloak on the floor hours earlier than the rest of us. About a week later, Jesus appeared to us all and Thomas came to believe, but that is a story for another time.

As I lay on my cloak that night, too excited to sleep, I realized that what happened to Jesus had happened to me, too. I was dead. Broken, lost, abandoned, and then He raised me up. He pulled me out of the darkness into the light and life of His love.

To this day, five years later, I continue to receive notes from Peter telling stories of how Jesus continues to raise people out of the darkness of this world and into the light of His Truth, though He ascended to His Father. The Holy Spirit that Jesus gave to us that night is alive and working. Though the community is still small, it is growing, and I am confident that someday all will know what occurred on that glorious morning and come to believe and find new life in Christ as I, and so many others, have.