Far away, Bethany lay cold in the rain. The dampness outside made the candlelit room inside feel thick and muggy, the air of sickness and approaching death adding its pall to the flickering flame. Mary sat next to the bed holding his hand. Breathing had become labored and irregular. Sallow cheeks replaced what used to be a firm, aristocratic face, hair tangled and unkempt. Mary brushed away a few strands as her fingers caressed his brow. The silk robe, imported from the East, that clothed him did little to allay the appearance of serious illness. His fever remained high and his skin a deeper yellow than anyone had seen before. One thing was immediately clear: Lazarus was dying.

"He is gone," said her sister softly. Mary's eyes widened and observed his chest rising and falling in a still, then a jerking, convulsive fashion.

"No," she exclaimed, terrified, "He is still breathing!"

"I meant Jarud," said her sister. "He is on his way to fetch Jesus." What she didn't say was that she felt it was too late. Her brother was fading too quickly.

Mary turned tear-stained cheeks toward Martha, "We should have sent for him three days ago. Our brother is . . ." she couldn't bring herself to say it, ". . . so very sick." There was a moment's silence between them. Other members of the family had begun to gather. Word had reached friends. They, too, had come, several of them bringing dishes of food. "Where is he?"

"A day's journey away," said Martha, "He was last seen in the town of Ephraim, in Peraea. Jarud will go as fast as he can."

"How will he find him? Our Lord moves about so."

"He will not be difficult to locate. Thousands follow him wherever he goes. Someone will know where he is. Do not worry, sister; he will come."

Of what significance are the words of a dying man? Whatever their significance, they are rarely as dramatic or poignant as most of us imagine. Having spoken so many words in his lifetime, he knew they were about to cease. His brain felt lethargic and drugged, incapable of speech, incapable of coherent, linear thought. He knew he would not last the night. He knew Jesus would not come before he was dead. An enormous sadness enveloped him. "If I could see his face one more time," he thought, "just one more word of comfort and peace, just one more moment in his presence." Through the clouds that were his thoughts, he remembered the good times when Jesus visited them. He remembered the laughter, the stories, the embraces, the joy. Suddenly, unexpectedly, everything cleared. Mental clouds evaporated and he felt surprisingly lucid and in control of his faculties. He opened his eyes to see his sister sitting next to him and became aware of his hand in hers.

"Mary," he whispered softly. Words from his dry throat and parched lips came hard, almost as if they emanated from a dried cob of corn. Mary's eyes fluttered from dozing. She awoke, startled.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "Oh, Lazarus! My sweet, sweet Lazarus!" She didn't know what else she could say, should say. "We sent a servant to find Jesus," she explained. "He is coming. He will be here soon!"

"He will not arrive in time, dear sister."

"Oh, yes! Yes, he will Lazarus," she stammered. "You rest now, Jesus will here soon." Instinctively, she began to fuss over him, straightening his hair, tucking in the covers, pulling them up around his chin. "Would you like some water? Some wine?"

"Mary." he spoke softly.

She looked at him in hopeless desperation. "What!" her voiced choked out the word.

"Mary, call our sister. Call Martha. I have something to say to you both."

"All right," she said. "All right . . . you rest now. I'll be right back." She hurriedly left the room.

She found Martha in the room where food was prepared and served. She was moving about managing all of the items people had brought, wondering what to do with them all. How could they possibly eat all of this, where was she going to find room for everything? Her sister came to the door. "At last, you're here. Please help me put these things away before they spoil."

"Martha . . ?"

"Oh, Mary, please. Not now. Don't just stand there looking helpless. Here, take these grapes and put them . . ."

"Martha, he is calling for us. He wants to speak to us."

Her elder sister stopped as if struck by a stone. "He is awake?" she asked. Wiping her hand on a cloth without really needing to, moving another item or two without actually knowing what she was moving, she responded, "Yes. Well, let's go see what he wants." And then anxiously, "There is so much to do. Oh, how I wish Jesus were here . . ." and then, "But he isn't. He isn't. There is no use fussing about it." She hurried after her sister.

They found him as Mary had left him, lying on his back, eyes staring at the ceiling of the room. It was getting on in the day and the light from the candles was brighter than the light through the window. Lazarus looked gaunt and emaciated, far from the vigorous leader of men that he had always been, far from the educated, erudite counselor of friend and enemy alike, negotiator, man of substance with no small influence and power. Now he lay on his bed, moving persistently toward death. Martha began to do what she knew to do, straightening the covers, fluffing his pillow . . .

"Sister, sit down!" he ordered, quietly but firmly. Both of them took their places at his bedside. "Listen carefully to my words. They are to be my last . . ."

"No!" they both chimed. "Lazarus, don't say such things," ordered Martha. You will recover. Already we have sent Jarud to find Jesus. He will come . . ."

"Quiet, Martha! Let me speak." His sister stopped. Martha caught her breath, quieted herself, and gently sat on the edge of her brother's bed.

"Speak, then," she said softly.

"Wealth and riches are in my house," he began. "Even in darkness light has dawned and good will has been my mistress. I have conducted my affairs with justice. I have tried to be generous and freely lend to those in need. And now, though I face death, I will not be shaken. I do not fear, my heart is steadfast, trusting in the Lord. I have scattered my substance to the poor, and I am ready to face my Maker." He stopped for a moment shifting his eyes. It seemed as though he were searching for thought. After an awkward pause, a pause Martha could endure no longer and was about to interrupt, he found his tongue . . .

"I am ready to face my Maker . . . just . . . not yet."

In the waning hours of the day, the rain ceased. Mary sat still by the bed when she noticed the silence. At first it merely struck her that things seemed unusually quiet, and then she became aware that his chest no longer rose and fell.