It was the cold silence after the funeral that undid Clara.
Her hands trembled as she gathered the last of the casseroles crowding the kitchen counter, their warmth faded hours ago. People had drifted out with shy glances and murmured condolences, leaving her apartment hollow—and Clara, hollower still.
Mark had always filled the silence. His laugh, his love for cheesy worship songs on Sunday mornings, even the way he explained Scripture over cups of burnt coffee—they were gone now, like breath on a mirror, disappeared.
Clara pressed her forehead against the cabinet door. “Lord,” she whispered, heart crumpling in on itself, “how do You expect me to live when half of me is gone?”
She wanted to be angry. To slam her fists against heaven’s gates and demand an answer. But exhaustion pinned her there instead, heavy and real.
That night, as wind tapped against the windows, Clara sat cross-legged on the faded rug, Mark’s big, worn Bible in her lap. The well-loved spine creaked as she opened it. A scrap of paper fluttered out—his handwriting, uneven but unmistakable.
“For if we have been united with Him in a death like His, we shall certainly be united with Him in a resurrection like His.”
(Romans 6:5)
Clara’s throat tightened. She brushed her fingers across the scribbled note. United. Certainly. Resurrection.
“I still don’t understand,” she said aloud.
For days, grief held fast. Meals were tasteless; sunlight felt intrusive. But every evening, she found herself back on that rug, flipping through pages. Lamentations, Psalms, John—all full of people who wept, doubted, and waited.
One Tuesday afternoon, drawn outside by habit more than will, Clara ended up at the community garden. Mark had loved it here. She wandered among the drooping marigolds and dried cornstalks left from summer, boots crunching over brittle leaves.
And there, in the most neglected corner, she saw something: a tiny green stem, stubbornly pushing its way through cracked earth. Against the dying backdrop of autumn, it was absurd—a foolish little hope.
Clara knelt, brushing away dirt to see it clearer. A crocus, maybe. Or a lily. She didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
She laughed—a broken sound at first, but pure. “Of course,” she said, tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks.
Death wasn’t the end. It was a season. A doorway. A seed buried so that life might blossom something newer, richer, more beautiful.
Even now, Mark lived—in ways she couldn’t yet see but somehow believed. Jesus’ resurrection wasn't just a promise; it was the architecture of reality, written into roots and skies and even this trembling, aching heart.
Clara rose slowly, cradling the tiny sprout in her hand.
She was not alone. Even in this barren place, God breathed life. Death had lost its victory long before today ever arrived.
Later that night, Clara pulled Mark’s Bible close again. This time, she didn’t wait for clarity or miracles. She simply sat inside the silence, breathed, and listened.
Somewhere in the stillness, she could almost hear that ancient whisper:
"Behold, I make all things new."
And somehow, impossibly, she smiled.
—
Bible References:
It was the cold silence after the funeral that undid Clara.
Her hands trembled as she gathered the last of the casseroles crowding the kitchen counter, their warmth faded hours ago. People had drifted out with shy glances and murmured condolences, leaving her apartment hollow—and Clara, hollower still.
Mark had always filled the silence. His laugh, his love for cheesy worship songs on Sunday mornings, even the way he explained Scripture over cups of burnt coffee—they were gone now, like breath on a mirror, disappeared.
Clara pressed her forehead against the cabinet door. “Lord,” she whispered, heart crumpling in on itself, “how do You expect me to live when half of me is gone?”
She wanted to be angry. To slam her fists against heaven’s gates and demand an answer. But exhaustion pinned her there instead, heavy and real.
That night, as wind tapped against the windows, Clara sat cross-legged on the faded rug, Mark’s big, worn Bible in her lap. The well-loved spine creaked as she opened it. A scrap of paper fluttered out—his handwriting, uneven but unmistakable.
“For if we have been united with Him in a death like His, we shall certainly be united with Him in a resurrection like His.”
(Romans 6:5)
Clara’s throat tightened. She brushed her fingers across the scribbled note. United. Certainly. Resurrection.
“I still don’t understand,” she said aloud.
For days, grief held fast. Meals were tasteless; sunlight felt intrusive. But every evening, she found herself back on that rug, flipping through pages. Lamentations, Psalms, John—all full of people who wept, doubted, and waited.
One Tuesday afternoon, drawn outside by habit more than will, Clara ended up at the community garden. Mark had loved it here. She wandered among the drooping marigolds and dried cornstalks left from summer, boots crunching over brittle leaves.
And there, in the most neglected corner, she saw something: a tiny green stem, stubbornly pushing its way through cracked earth. Against the dying backdrop of autumn, it was absurd—a foolish little hope.
Clara knelt, brushing away dirt to see it clearer. A crocus, maybe. Or a lily. She didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
She laughed—a broken sound at first, but pure. “Of course,” she said, tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks.
Death wasn’t the end. It was a season. A doorway. A seed buried so that life might blossom something newer, richer, more beautiful.
Even now, Mark lived—in ways she couldn’t yet see but somehow believed. Jesus’ resurrection wasn't just a promise; it was the architecture of reality, written into roots and skies and even this trembling, aching heart.
Clara rose slowly, cradling the tiny sprout in her hand.
She was not alone. Even in this barren place, God breathed life. Death had lost its victory long before today ever arrived.
Later that night, Clara pulled Mark’s Bible close again. This time, she didn’t wait for clarity or miracles. She simply sat inside the silence, breathed, and listened.
Somewhere in the stillness, she could almost hear that ancient whisper:
"Behold, I make all things new."
And somehow, impossibly, she smiled.
—
Bible References:
