The Empty Grave

by Rhonda Beavers

When my parents were first married, they decided to live with my maternal grandmother to help her bring up her pre-adolescent son. My dad moved into a community in which my mom had lived for years. This didn’t phase my dad at all, as he was the most outgoing people-person you ever met. He loved talking to everyone, old or young, rich or poor, male or female. My mom had no reason to be jealous as there was never a more loyal husband. My dad considered them all his peers, no more, no less. All these people had a story to tell, and it seems as if my father was determined to hear every one of them.

“For I say, for the grace given unto me, to every man that is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think; but to think soberly, according as God hath dealt to every man the measure of faith” (Romans 12:3).

He was also a good neighbor, pitching in a hand whenever necessary. These duties even extended to digging a grave for an old family friend by the name of Abb Addison after my dad and his best friend had found the gentleman deceased in his bed one chilly late winter morning. In those days, graves were dug by hand, and my dad was a perfectionist when it came to any handiwork he attempted. On this occasion, he was standing in the bottom of the freshly dug grave, perfecting a small ledge that was placed necessarily just below the opening. The group of attending community men were approached by what some of them considered to be an outsider. Not an outsider geographically, but socially because he tended to look down his nose on others he perceived as inferior to himself.

After quickly observing my father’s perfectionistic efforts, this outsider announced, “that’s good enough, it’s just Abb Addison.” There was no way out of the grave except to be pulled out by a pal. After what must have been a cold, steely glare from my dad’s hazel green eyes, my father put up his young, strong hand and instructed his friend Buck, “Pull me out.” The intruder quickly saw his

social faux pas and beat a path homeward, leaving the dead man’s friends to send him to Heaven in style.

Christ sees us all as equal. He loves to talk with us, but He doesn’t need to because He already knows our story better than we do. “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). Christ was surrounded at the time of his death by those who loved him, those who mocked him, and those who cared not either way. He was placed in a borrowed grave, but not for long. All He had to do was ask His Heavenly Father, “Pull me out,” and Satan knew to beat a path. 54 // April 2022