Jowell Tan

THE RETURN OF THE KING

Three days after my worst day up on that cursed hill, I overhear from the ladies gossiping under my window that the man they called Jesus of Nazareth had returned from the dead. If that’s true, I think to myself, Heaven must not have been such a great place after all. Then, another thought: My Dimas. My son, who was nailed on that cross next to Him, who received His promise to join Him in heaven as their lives faded away. The thought freezes my fingers, and the water I was holding slips out of my hand, shattering into a thousand pieces on the floor. Is my Dimas too, alive, like Him who promised him Heaven and had now returned? My son, possibly back in the world of the living. Digging his way out of the bandages and the shallow grave I dug for him at the foot of the hill, making his way back to me. I run out without my sandals, leaving my house door open and the gossiping ladies’ shrill dialogues far behind me. I don’t stop until I reach the hill where he was crucified.

I see in place of his grave an empty shallow body-length hole, surrounded by white bandage wrappings. Could it be that my Dimas has been brought back to the land of the living? I worry about him, unclothed and at the mercy of the winds, unsure of where he is. I turn around and walk back in the direction of my house, hoping that I might glimpse him somewhere along the way and catch him from behind.

I am quite a ways along the route, when I see in the distance a shadow of a man running towards me. Could that be my Dimas, running to his mother’s arms? As the man comes nearer and nearer, my hope is broken for the second time - It is not my son, but instead he is Thomas, one of the Disciples of Jesus The Nazarene, galloping at great speed towards a place far behind me. As he runs past me I yell, “What’s the hurry?” and the answer, as I expected: “My friends tell me my Master has returned from the dead, and so I am on my way to see Him for myself.” Perhaps my Dimas is with this man’s Master? I yell, “Wait for me!”, and together we rush down to meet Jesus.

Jesus is surrounded by his Disciples, eleven discounting Thomas. As we approach we see His unscarred forehead. We feel the presence of His otherworldly golden glow. One of the other Disciples, John, he calls out to Thomas: “Come, see, The Lord!” and Thomas replies “Yes, I see, Except I shall see in his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe.” and Jesus speaks, gently and without unnecessary volume: “Reach here your finger, and behold my hands; and reach here your hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not faithless, but believing.”

Thomas walks over with a finger outstretched, gingerly moving it through the holes His hands, tracing but not touching the circular shapes that the nails created. He stares for a long time at the open wound on Jesus’ side, made by a legionnaire’s spear that fateful day on that cursed hill, just three days past. Thomas, faced with proof of the physical embodiment of his Master, the man he believed in, casts his doubt aside and kneels before Him, shouting: “My Lord and my God!” and Jesus gently rebukes him, saying: “Because you have seen Me, you have believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”

Jesus sees me, watching from a distance yet wanting so much to rush and ask him after my Dimas. Did my son return with you?, I want to say. His grave is empty, just like yours. So just like you, he should be alive too. I don’t know if He even knows who I am. Jesus sees me, and he calls out, “Woman, why are you crying?” I go over with respect, my eyes down, my body reverent, and I ask him after my Dimas. Jesus says nothing, only looks at me with his piercing eyes for what seems like a lifetime. An eternity passes while he stays silent. Then, he simply reaches out and kisses my forehead. He whispers to me, “Peace be with you.” And then he is brought away by his Disciples, leaves for privacy before the crowd arrives to hound him with questions and worship. I am left behind, alone with only the four words he imparted to me, attempting to find an answer, if any, hidden within the layers of his voice that keeps speaking and repeating in my ear.

Some days later, I hear that the Nazarene Jesus, after speaking to an audience on a hill, ascended into Heaven, greeted by two wearing white. I close my eyes, and I pray for the first time in my life. I ask for my Dimas to be safe, be he in Heaven or on Earth. His shallow grave at the foot of that cursed hill remains empty every day that I venture to it. The white wrappings have been blown away by the wind. Nothing physical of my Dimas is in that hole now. Only the ghosts of sadness and mourning, and a mother’s hope fills that hole now.

A mother’s hope to one day see her son again.

When not surviving Real Life, Jowell Tan writes about fictional lives. Never without a new story idea, he spends his nights typing and his days reading, juggling his many roles as a rat racer, a father, and a writer. He somehow stays afloat. He sometimes gets published by journals. He always tries his best. Say hi to him on twitter (@jwlltn) — he promises not to bite.