The terror of the night fades quickly and under oath you could not recall what frightened you, let alone unearth the memory which provoked it. Someone walks by and you catch a faint aroma of perfume, or the breeze suddenly shifts and the fragrance of spring flowers caresses your face. As the darkness of Friday became the dawn of Saturday you could have smelled the dank, fetid odor of despair. Saturday became Sunday but the only difference anyone could tell was that it was no longer Saturday. Then the odor of a familiar perfume drifted up through the open window.
Love never reaches for the calculator, but greed and hatred always do.
With despair the eleven surviving disciples would have remembered that. Then the sweet perfume became stronger and Mary burst through the door, the scent of spikenard from the Himalayas filling the upper room. The aroma of all of that perfume still saturated her clothes and clung to her hands and sweetened her hair. I went to finish the burial preparations, but the grave was empty. And then they remembered.