If you would prefer to listen to this story as an audio recording, CLICK HERE.

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NOTE: As has become my annual practice, starting last week and for the three weeks that follow, i am posting four short stories about four different people who encountered Jesus during the months leading up to His crucifixion and resurrection. You will find each of these individuals in the Gospel accounts, however i have added fictional elements to each of their stories so that we might see each one … as they journeyed through their lives leading up to their encounter … and as they continued their journey in the days that followed. You will read the parts of their stories you may already know … and the rest that could have been. Though some of the other characters and details contained in each story may be fictional, you will find the truth conveyed about the One they each encountered to be very REAL! My prayer is that through the stories, you will see Jesus and be reminded of the Good News of the cross and the empty tomb as we enter into this season of remembrance. To that end, let’s look at their stories:

The Paralytic (March 23)

The Grieving Mother (This week – March 30)

The One Caught In The Act (April 6)

The Man Who Owned The Upper Room (April 13)

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I am Susanna, and I grew up here in the small village of Nain in southern Galilee, which is about ten miles southeast of Nazareth. The majority of the people here are farmers. We live off of the land that God provided us. Wheat and barley are our seasonal crops, along with our summer crops of fresh vegetables. But olive oil and honey are our two primary cash crops, so our village presses are active year-round. We enjoy a bountiful harvest each year from the numerous olive tree groves surrounding our village.

The first settlers in Nain also discovered many natural beehives located in the caves and rock cavities surrounding the village. They soon realized they could increase honey production by adding hives made of straw and unbaked clay. Increased honey production led to the export of two derivative products from our village – beeswax and honey wine.

My husband’s family owned and operated the largest olive oil press in the village. Kadan inherited the business when his father died soon after we were married. Most of the olive producers in our village used my husband’s press to grind their olives into oil. Each year harvests were plentiful, demand for olive oil was high, and Kadan’s business prospered. 

One other thing you should know about our village is that Mount Tabor, the highest peak in this region, is only two miles north of us. Over the years, it has become customary to light beacons at the top of Mount Tabor to inform the northern villages of our Jewish holy feast days and the beginning of each new month. The beacons can be seen for miles when the fires are lit.

Lighting the beacons for the feast days reminds us of God’s faithfulness in our past, and the monthly beacons remind us of His continuing faithfulness in the days ahead. And they remind me that darkness cannot overcome the light. As a matter of fact, the light shines brightest in the midst of darkness.

I was abruptly and painfully reminded of that fact several years ago when Kadan died in a tragic accident. Our son, Zohar, was eight years old when his father was crushed by a large millstone while making repairs to the press. It was the second darkest day of my life. Kadan was not only a good husband, father, and provider – he was my best friend. He and I had been friends from childhood, and our marriage had been arranged when we were children. We both were our parents’ only child, so in many respects, we had grown up like brother and sister.

Our lives were so intertwined that when Kadan died, a piece of me died with him. Zohar became the only light left in my darkness. Kadan and I had named our son Zohar because his name means “light.” We knew God was placing a light in our family the day he was born, but I never realized just how much I would one day need that light!

Gratefully, the press mill passed to Zohar as my husband’s heir; otherwise, a distant male relative would have inherited it and we would have had no source of income. I was able to employ some of the men who had worked for my husband to run the mill until my son was old enough to take his rightful place.

Kadan had already introduced Zohar to the work at the mill, but now that my husband was gone, my son became even more intent on learning how to manage the business. Gratefully, my husband’s workers were good teachers and patiently trained Zohar. Each day I saw him become more like his father – hardworking, fair in his dealings, wise in his decisions, and liked by all. I knew Kadan would have been proud of the man his son was becoming.

I never really recovered from the loss of my husband, but Zohar brightened my days, and I was hopeful about his future. And I knew he would take care of his widowed mother.

Six months ago, on my son’s eighteenth birthday, he told me he was ready to take over the family business. The men who had been teaching him confirmed that they, too, believed he was ready.

Zohar also had his eye on Zahara, a young woman in our village. He had decided to wait until he was managing the mill and could adequately provide for her before he asked her father’s permission to marry her. His desire to marry Zahara had been further incentive for him to learn the trade well – and the incentive had worked! 

A few days later, Zohar and I met with Zahara’s parents and we reached a marriage agreement. They became betrothed and the marriage feast was planned for six months from that date – which is today. As I looked at my son and his betrothed, I saw the same happiness Kadan and I had felt. I forgot my own grief as my heart overflowed with joy thinking about the wonderful life ahead for this couple. 

Remember when I said Kadan’s death was the second darkest day of my life? Well, exactly one month ago, we were all making preparations for the wedding feast. Zahara and I were discussing some of the details that still needed to be finalized. All of a sudden, one of the workers from the mill burst into my home. He had urgent news. There had been an accident! Zohar had been making repairs to the oil press. While he was in the crushing basin, the pillar holding the crushing stones gave way. The entire structure had collapsed on him. The other men were working to free Zohar, but this man had been sent to alert me.

Zahara and I ran the short distance from my home to the mill. When we arrived, I saw my son lying on the floor beside the press. They had apparently been able to free him from the rubble, but no one was attending to him. There he lay, bloodied and bruised, but no one was treating him. I immediately cried out asking if they had sent someone for a physician. They hesitated – and then told me they had not. “Zohar is dead,” one of the men said. “He was already dead when we removed the stones from on top of him. Susanna, we are so sorry!”

I don’t remember anything after that. I knelt down and cradled my dead son’s head in my lap. Zahara knelt beside me, and we both wept uncontrollably. The darkness in my life had returned – and this time it had snuffed out all of the light.

After a short while, others began to enter the mill. I saw Zahara’s parents come in and embrace her. Soon they turned their attention to me. The midwife of the village arrived. She immediately looked over Zohar’s dead body and confirmed that there was no life in him. The priest followed right behind her and soon the two of them, together with Zahara’s parents, were making burial arrangements. My son would need to be buried before sundown and it was already approaching the middle of the afternoon.

I couldn’t even think about the details. I was grateful that others were handling the arrangements. The one person who understood my agony was Zahara – and I was the one who most understood her pain. So, the two of us just held onto each other. I cradled my son’s head in my lap for at least an hour, until the priest gently told me I needed to let him go so his body could be prepared for burial.

Several of the women walked Zahara and me back to my home until it was time for the burial procession. As the minutes passed, even with Zahara sitting beside me, I felt completely alone. My husband was gone and now my son was gone. I was a widow with no one to care for me. My son’s business would pass to one of my husband’s distant relatives whom I didn’t even know. I felt like my life was over. The wave of grief that had already overtaken me was now joined by the wave of despair.

Our burial ground was just outside of the village. At this time of day, that ground stood in the shadow of Mount Tabor. As we began to make the journey, I remember thinking that the signal lights of the mount would shine over my son’s grave. It’s strange the things that come to mind when you’re numb with grief.

The priest walked at the head of the procession. He was loudly proclaiming all of my son’s good works. I walked immediately behind the priest with Zahara right beside me. A group of mourning women, including Zahara’s mother, surrounded us. Zohar’s body was being carried behind us on an open bier made of wicker wood. I had requested that his face not be covered. His hands had been folded and carefully placed on his chest.

There were holes in the bier through which poles were inserted. The poles were being carried by four of his friends – some of the very men who just a few hours earlier had feverishly attempted to rescue him. The men were walking barefoot to ensure they would be sure-footed, and the bier would not be jostled in any way. The sounds of the loud lamentations pierced the air. It was a tragic and hopeless scene.

As we made our way, I saw a Man walking toward us. He, too, had a large group surrounding Him – but theirs appeared to be a much happier occasion. He looked like He may be a Teacher and they may be His disciples. He and His entourage were headed into the village while we were headed out.

Through tear-filled eyes, I could see His compassion toward me. I had no idea who He was, but I found a slight degree of solace in His expression. As our two groups passed one another, He looked at me and said, “Don’t cry!”(1)

Though I was grateful for His sentiment, I couldn’t help but wonder to myself, “What do you expect me to do?” He continued on past me, but I could tell He was walking toward the wooden bier on which Zohar’s body had been carefully placed. Next He did something completely unimaginable – He laid hold of the bier to stop the procession. 

Everyone in our procession gasped … as did His followers! What He had just done was a violation of Jewish law. Except for those preparing the body for burial, no one is permitted to touch a dead body or the coffin. To do so amounted to the worst kind of defilement. What’s more, He had just disrupted me in the midst of my grief!

But as taken aback as we all were, it was nothing compared to what He did next. He stood there looking at my son’s body for a brief moment and then said, “Young man, I tell you, get up!”(2)

I couldn’t believe my ears! Then immediately, Zohar sat up! Now I couldn’t believe my eyes! My son who had been dead sat up! And he began to talk to his friends who were carrying the bier. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I saw the look of amazement on his friends’ faces. Gently they set the wooden bier on the ground, and this Man took my son’s hand to help him stand up. Then He helped Zohar walk to me. Was this real? Was I dreaming it?

Zohar wrapped his arms around me, and then I knew this was real. My son was alive! Then Zohar embraced Zahara. Tears were streaming down all of our faces. Tears of sorrow had been replaced by tears of sheer joy! Everyone else stood in absolute silence as the three of us embraced. Where moments earlier there had been death and hopelessness, this Man had restored life and hope!

After our moment of celebration, we all began to tremble with fear. I fell to my knees before Him and asked Him who He was. Before He could answer, some of those with Him said, “This is Jesus, the Promised One!”

He gently reached down and lifted me to my feet. As I stood there looking into His eyes, I was reminded of the woman from Shunem whose son had died, and yet God had raised him from the dead through the prophet Elisha.

I had always heard that story growing up. You see, our village of Nain is located on the same hill where the ancient village of Shunem was located. I  thought it was an amazing story. But now I knew it was true! God in His goodness had now chosen to restore life on this hill of a second son – my son!

Word quickly spread across the region – “A mighty prophet has risen among us! Surely God has visited His people today!”(3) But I knew as I watched Jesus walk away that day He was more than a prophet. He did not raise my son from the dead because He had been granted temporary authority; rather, He is the One who has authority over death!

We celebrated the wedding feast of Zohar and Zahara today! It was a great day of rejoicing. It was a day of new life – life given, life returned by God, and a new life as husband and wife. But it wasn’t only Zohar who was given new life that day – so was I. And I knew that I would follow Jesus. Tomorrow I would leave to join the other women and men who were following Him.

I would no longer live in the light cast from the fire on top of Mount Tabor. Now I would walk in the light that radiates from the One who had stood before me.

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You can listen to an audio recording of this story by tuning into this week’s episode of my podcast by  CLICKING HERE

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In multiple instances the dialogue in this story comes directly from Scripture. Whenever i am quoting Scripture, it has been italicized. Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

The Scripture references are as follows:

(1)  Luke 7:13

(2)  Luke 7:14

(3)  Luke 7:16

Copyright © 2022 Kenneth A. Winter All rights reserved.

Photo by LUMO – The Gospels for the visual age on Lightstock