She was alone now, vulnerable to every vulture in the neighborhood. And they were gathering—relatives who lusted after furniture, clothing, and cookware, and friends who were ready to slip into her house and liberate heirlooms. Widows had few rights, and she was now a widow without even a son to protect her.

He had been a good son—all that a mother could have hoped for—a neighborhood fixture, respected, trusted, and admired by all. His presence had assured that she would have food, even though her husband and provider was gone. His thoughtfulness made her feel special. His energy made her feel young.

And now he was gone—felled by a disease without a name. Dead within days. Stolen away from her in a way that made everyone look at her with a mixture of compassion, fear, and disdain. Compassion because “It might have been me, ” yet afraid she might be carrying a bewitching power that steals life from those near her. And the looks she caught showed a disdain that bordered on contempt, the combination placing her life in constant danger. In respect for her young son, the whole town gathered to watch.

But the funeral was tiny. Hired pallbearers. The required priest. Wailers that cost her last denarius. A cortege winding out the gates to the Potter’s Field. A new body joining others who were “without value” in Nain.

The darkness of her life matched the black of her robe. Until she heard The Voice.

“Don’t cry,” He said gently, words that interrupted her grief and slowed the procession, lengthening her sadness. But words poured the glue of hope into her broken heart.

The next few moments passed in tear-filled, slow motion.

The bearers stood aside. The mourners went silent. Jesus touched her son and all watchers gasped.

“Stand up,” Jesus told her son. And her world came to life and righted itself.

For an eternal second, the crowd stood in awe-filled silence. Then, everything exploded in raucous activity. Some screamed home in terror. Others shouted angry epithets at the Healer they did not understand. But most rushed to her son to pinch his flesh, hear his voice, and invite him and his mother for dinner next Sabbath. All wanted to touch her hand in honor and joy.

Her day ended with a dance, a feast, and a thanksgiving offering. And prayers. Prayers said by mother and son. Family prayers said together. Prayers of awe and rejoicing. They were alive! Safe. Whole. Valued. Thankful. Family forever.

Dick Duerksen is assistant vice president for mission development at Florida Hospital.