John 11: 21-25

 “Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died.  But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.”

 Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.”

 Martha answered, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”

 Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?”

Then Jesus said, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”

John 11:41-44

So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me.”

When he had said this, Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face.

Jesus said to them, “Take off the grave clothes and let him go.”

Dear Shannon:

Do you remember Lazarus? Can you feel the grief of his sisters, their brother sealed in the darkness of death? As you grieve today–for whatever or whomever–will you not take off your grave clothes? Will you not go into the world with my promise of resurrected life, resurrected hope, and everlasting mercy? Will you not follow Me, for I am the resurrection and the life.

And will you not remember your own words, the story of a boy named Lazarus born in another continent, in another time, and resurrected into new life? There are resurrections all around you, Shannon, if you will have but eyes to see. Remember this and live the life I have promised you. Abundantly, surely, freely.

With love,

Jesus

Lazarus
The day you were born,

your mother labored for hours before

your father returned from the fields

at dusk.

In the near dark,

he was met by two goats,

a flock of guinea hens,

and an old woman from the village.

Tucked in the crook of her arm:

a brown bundle.

“A boy,” she announced,

and your father unwrapped the rice sackcloth that covered you

to find two fists, like sleeping snails,

pressed against your face

and a mouth, sucking air.

As he moved to enter the hut, though,

the old woman blocked the door,

tried to press you into his arms and said,

“She’s gone.”

But your father did not take you.

Instead, he left the way he came,

losing himself in the maize at twilight.

Seeing this,

the old woman closed the door to your hut

and began the slow walk up the mountain.

When she could only see shadows and shapes in the dark—

wild baboons or spirits—

she found the clearing.

There, according to tribal custom,

she placed you on a ridge of flat, gray stone:

an ancient altar of sacrifice.

Before she left,

she spoke your name into the night

then disappeared into the village of evening fires and voices

below.

Your eyes drank in the dark,

and you were not afraid.

Moments later, the missionary who had followed,

keeping a safe distance behind,

crept from the iroko trees,

took you in her arms,

and ran.

No one knows how far or how long she ran.

But she ran.

Until somewhere at sometime,

she stopped

and found her way back to Jalingo,

to husband and home.

And there, in the corner of her sleeping room,

in the cradle she slept in as a baby,

she covered you with hope

and spoke your name into life:

Lazarus.

***This story is based on a true account that I heard while I was in Africa. The missionary, a quiet, faithful                    Nigerian woman, was our guide and host for our time there. Her son flourishes in a loving home.