[I took some creative liberty with this, but I thought it’d make an interesting snippet. Thanks for reading.🙃 ~Willow]

The last thing I remember, I was sick. My sisters, Martha and Mary, were beside me while I laid on my bed, slipping in and out of consciousness.

I don’t remember much. Just the chills, the thrashing, the sweat, the way my body ached after lying in bed for days. But what I do recall the most was the darkness. Every time I was asleep, I felt a tugging in my head, as if someone was urging me to sleep—forever.

And then I did.

Only, it wasn’t forever.

It was a few days—four, according to Martha—but it felt like eternity.

I’ve had a lot of people ask me, “What was it like to be dead?”

There’s no way to know the feeling of death without experiencing it for yourself. The cold, empty feeling. The way your mind drifts, unable to capture a single thought. All of this, it wasn’t even a tangible feeling when I was there. I was unaware at the time. But I remember it now.

I died when I was asleep. Mary had been the one sitting beside me, holding a cloth to my forehead, when she said I stopped breathing. And she knew. Calling for Martha, she tried to shake me awake, but I was already dead.

Death is a peculiar thing. One moment you’re there, then the next second, you’re just…gone. One last breath is what leaves your body empty.

But all of that stopped when Jesus called me. It was dark, I wasn’t aware of life, everything was nothing. But then, I heard a voice shouting. Someone saying my name.

“Lazarus!”

A shout, yet a whisper. More than just a voice, but one with authority over death. And the voice of my best friend.

“Come out!”

All of a sudden, breath flowed through my body, energy crackled in my bones, my senses were overloaded, and thoughts were rushing through my brain.

As if someone had pulled me up—a hand from the darkness—I stood. My arms were stiff, as were my legs and back. But I was alive. The breath of Yahweh was surging through me! Me! A once-dead man!

Stumbling to the humming voices, aware of the cold stone under my feet and the burial rags wrapped around my face, I saw the faintest light shining through the fabric. I took a step towards it, my foot catching on a rock. Placing my hand on the wall beside me, I stabilized myself, and then took a step into the air.

The first thing I heard—that wasn’t the voice from the Man who raised me, of course—was screaming. Gasping. Crying.

Someone grabbed my arm, and I recognized the small, thin hand of my sister Mary.

“Laz?” she whispered, as if afraid to believe it. I could barely believe it myself.

I nodded, fumbling around my head to unwrap the burial cloths. A sob escaped her lips as she reached up and undid them for me and I could see for the first time…in my second time living.

There was a crowd of people, family, friends, co-workers, strangers, and with Martha, a group of around twelve people who were standing beside my best friend.

Jesus.

“Morning, Lazarus,” he greeted me, smiling. “Shalom.”

Faintly I nodded my head. “Shalom. What…what happened?”

Martha finally made her way from the crowd to stand at my side. She stared at me, and I’ve never been so happy to see my sister. I repeated hoarsely, “What happened?”

“You died.” Martha’s voice cracked, but she shook her head saying, “But you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

After realizing I was truly alive and well, people swarmed me, their thoughts buzzing like angry bees. “This wasn’t normal,” some said. “Witchcraft.” Others argued, “It’s a miracle!”

I didn’t care about their thoughts. I had to thank my best friend. I grabbed Jesus’s arm and squeezed. “Was that you?” He nodded, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“It’s good to see you, friend,” he told me. “Sorry we’re a bit late.” He nodded at the large-ish group of men. “My followers were…confused.”

“But you’re here now. And just in time too!” I exclaimed. Jesus laughed, slapping me on the back. “Ah, yes. I’m glad we made it. Now, how are you feeling? Anything I missed?”

“Well,” I began, “you know my crooked toe?” Jesus nodded, remembering when I broke it as a child. “It’s still crooked,” I finished lamely.

A grin snuck onto Jesus’s face and he said in reply, “Hm. I’ll see what I can do next time.” He winked and my stomach rumbled. Jesus rolled his eyes, shaking his head slowly. “Still as hungry as ever, eh, Lazarus?”

“It has been four days.”

“Let’s go find you some food,” he laughed as he walked me over to my sisters who, as soon as we got home, eagerly made me a meal.

As good as the food was, the only thought in my mind was this: I was alive.