The Empty Hospital Bed

In 2018, a family in Nashville gathered in the hallway outside Room 412 at Vanderbilt University Medical Center. Their father, Ray Castillo, had been on a ventilator for eleven days after a catastrophic stroke. The doctors had been gentle but direct — there was nothing more they could do. The family came that Tuesday morning to say goodbye, to sit with death, to do the hard and holy work of letting go.

But when Ray's daughter Maria pushed open the door, the bed was empty. Sheets pulled back. Monitors dark. Her knees buckled. She grabbed the doorframe, her mind racing through every terrible possibility. A nurse appeared behind her and said five words that rearranged her entire world: "Your father is awake. He's walking."

Ray Castillo had opened his eyes at 4 a.m., pulled the tubes from his own throat, and asked for scrambled eggs.

Maria still can't talk about that morning without trembling. Not from grief — from the sheer, disorienting shock of finding life where she had prepared to find death.

That is the morning of Mark 16. The women came carrying burial spices. They had rehearsed their grief. They worried about the stone. But the stone was already moved, the grave clothes empty, and a messenger waited with news too enormous to absorb: "He is risen. He is not here."

Sometimes the Almighty works while we are still preparing for the worst. The tomb was already open before they arrived. Grace always gets there first.