“How could you be certain that you were at the tomb where Jesus had been laid? After all, you had not witnessed the burial, and I have seen many graves outside the city’s walls.”

“Matthias, there is only one small garden near that terrible place called Golgotha, and in that garden Mary had told me there was only one tomb, hewn from rock. Later, Joseph confirmed that we had not been in error.”

I looked at Joseph. He nodded.

“John, did you see any soldiers—anyone—in that garden?”

“No one.”

“A gardener, perhaps?”

“No.”

“And the grave was open?”

“Yes, with the golal, the great round stone, rolled away from the opening and leaning against the side of the tomb.”

“What did you do?”

“I was frightened. Tombs at any time, especially at dawn, are not conducive to regular heartbeats, even when they are empty. My reasoning told me to wait for Peter, but he was still several hundred paces behind, so I gathered up what little courage I possessed and, stooping down, I looked inside. In the dim light I could see the white linen sheet resting on a shelf carved in the stone. The cloth was wrapped around and around as if it still contained a body, but I could see there was none.”

“Did you enter the tomb?”

“Not until after Peter arrived and crawled inside. When he emerged, his face was so pale that I feared he would collapse again. Instead he fell to his knees and began to pray. Then I crawled inside and saw not only the sheet that had been wrapped around the Lord’s body but also the napkin that is always placed on the face of the dead—and that napkin was on the shelf exactly where the head would have been in relation to the body linen. Then I believed.”

“You believed what?”

“That Jesus had risen from the dead as he had prophesied. Until that very moment, in that small garden, the true meaning of his words had never penetrated my thick head.”

I raised both hands in front of him. “I don’t understand, John. What did you and Peter see at that grave that made both of you believe that Jesus had risen from the dead?”