Lazarus

In these strange days lots of us are rediscovering our creative tendencies...so here is my resurrected blog!

A couple of years ago I spent some time with the story of the raising of Lazarus, from John's gospel (chapter 11). It definitely fits into the faith-testing category; and yet it is also an incredibly moving, very human story about friendship, family, love and loss. Today, in the eye of the storm that is COVID-19, it feels strangely appropriate. I approached it as a story-teller, with a fair bit of artistic licence - drawing from legends about Lazarus particularly in his latter years, as well as the gospel reading and my own imagination.

I intend to post one of these stories every 2-3 days over the next fortnight. There are seven in all. Anyway, hope you enjoy them.

Snow

It had snowed, the day before he came. Did they tell you that? Overnight, secretively: though my sister was awake, watching, as the flakes fell like angel’s tears before a waning moon – or so she said. I wasn’t there.

His feet crunched through the thin icy carapace, then down to the softer snow beneath that squeaked against the soles of his sandals. He, too was unprepared for such inclemency, and must have shivered as he stood, unwavering, before the implacable stone. A few flakes still drifted from a melancholy sky, and he looked heavenwards as if in some surprise. Was it the weather’s unusual turn that baffled him, or the reason for his journey? – or that he was already late, too late, arriving well beyond the point of decency. The neighbourhood had rallied round, surrounding the family, holding them in their embrace; and beyond them the professional mourners had begun their keening. All of this, of course, was unknown to me. I had fallen asleep on a cool spring day; I had yet to awaken to this snow-shrouded world.

The light is different after snow, even inside a room; you know instantly upon waking that the world has changed. I jolted awake, unsure of what had woken me – perhaps a noise? Had someone called my name? – and I knew that something had changed, although at first I found it difficult to be specific. I opened my eyes to whiteness: no shapes, no definition. Whiteness – and silence. No further clues came as to where or when or who or what next. I waited, seconds or perhaps minutes, and became aware of the cold. I seemed to be dressed inadequately, but in what I could not tell – more unfamiliarity. There was something on my head, over my face, which held my breath as I exhaled, a lingering, slow breath – as if I had been holding it in for a long time. It warmed me a little.

LAZARUS.

Again, my name. Yes, that was what had woken me. I was needed somewhere, by someone. The voice was familiar, but the tone was not. I shook my head, trying to remember, and was suddenly free of the hood of my garment. Yet I could not easily stand; I was shackled, bound hand and foot, and when I tried to shout out for help I discovered that my jaw had also been bound. I was no longer blind; but I remained lame and mute.

I sat, cold upon the stone, gazing out at the white blankness. Someone would come.