At Nain, a small village, my disciples and I met a burial procession headed for tombs cut in the side of a nearby hill. A young man lay on a flower-covered bier. I learned his name from a man in the procession: it was David. He and his mother had been my friends for years. I recognized Athalia walking behind the bier, weeping. Aaron, her husband, had died recently.
It was a warm, still afternoon. The warbling of a bulbul seemed out of place as the procession passed. As the bier scraped against a rock, as the bearers stopped, I approached one of them and asked them to wait.
“David...David...this is Jesus...arise...”
The disciples, astonished, bunched around the bier. I touched David, spoke loudly, shook him.
“David, you are all right. Your mother is here. Get up...” He sat up among his flowers and his mother rushed to his side. He recognized my voice and asked for me. I talked gently with him.
A happy procession. The bier was abandoned; someone threw flowers into the air as David walked...
I am overjoyed as I write. I see David and his mother kissing each other. Someone is singing.
From Nain I went on to see the daughter of Jairus as she lay in bed in her home. The curtains were drawn; the air was sick room air; flowers had wilted on her bed table; her dog cringed under her bed. I asked everyone to leave us alone.
“Talitha cumi,” I said. “Daughter, I say arise...you are no longer ill. The fever has left you.” As I prayed I also thought of John and his death. This little girl was not to fill a grave. I bent over her and took her hand. I could see her rolling a hoop, laughing.
“Talitha cumi,” I repeated, and sat beside her, pressed my hand over her forehead, touched her eyelids. “Rise, my daughter...you must sleep no longer...”