The Door She Almost Didn't Open

In 2018, Maria Gutierrez drove to her family's restaurant in Houston for the last time — or so she thought. Hurricane Harvey had buried the building under four feet of floodwater. For weeks she couldn't bring herself to go back. When she finally pulled into the parking lot, her hands shook on the steering wheel. She had come to say goodbye, to salvage whatever scraps she could from the wreckage.

But when she pushed open the swollen door, she found her neighbors inside. Twelve of them. They had ripped out the waterlogged drywall. They had bleached the concrete floors. Someone had carried in a donated commercial stove. A hand-painted sign on the counter read: "Grand Re-Opening — We Need Your Tamales, Maria."

She stood in the doorway, trembling. She had come prepared for death and walked straight into resurrection.

That is Mark 16. The women rose before dawn carrying burial spices — the ancient equivalent of Maria's goodbye. They walked toward a sealed tomb asking the only practical question grief allows: "Who will roll away the stone?" But the stone was already moved. The death they came to tend had been interrupted by something so enormous they fled, trembling and astonished.

The Almighty has a habit of doing His greatest work while we are still rehearsing our worst fears. We arrive expecting to manage our losses, and He has already begun making all things new.