You ever walk into a funeral home and catch that smell? Not just the floral overload of lilies and roses. I'm talking about the other scent—that sharp tang that clings beneath the surface. The smell of endings. Of hope curling up into itself like burnt paper. That was the smell in the air as the women walked at dawn on that first Easter Sunday morning.

They had spices in hand, sure. Myrrh, aloes, all the tricks designed to soften the harsh reality of death. But no perfume in the world can hide the smell of crushed dreams. These women weren't just carrying oils; they were bearing the weight of a world where Caesar always wins.

Rome had taught them well. Empires are great at driving home a point, especially when that point is nailed through someone's wrist into a piece of timber. These women knew how this story ended—Rome always ends the story. The empire had perfected the gospel of fear: submit or suffer. Bow or be broken. The imperial narrative was written in blood across three continents. Stories that challenge Caesar don't get sequels; they get silenced. And everybody knew it.

Look at their history. Every time hope started to flicker among God’s people, Rome's boot came down harder. Rebellions crushed. Prophetic movements scattered. Leaders executed as public spectacles.

The crosses lining Jerusalem's roads weren't just punishment; they were billboards advertising Rome's monopoly on hope. They said, "Dream if you must, but keep those dreams small, obedient, and to yourself.”

And Jesus?

Jesus was just the latest dreamer crushed beneath Rome's boot. Another prophet silenced. A spark of hope smothered before breakfast. Nothing new under the imperial sun. His talk of a new world had ended exactly as Rome intended … with a humiliating execution and scattered followers.

The message was clear: no matter how compelling your vision of a new realm of justice and peace, no matter how many healings or feedings or transformations you inspire, Caesar gets the final word.

So these women, full of grief and carrying nothing but spices and shattered expectations, came to pay their respects. One last act of devotion. Maybe even defiance, though it was the quiet kind—the kind that doesn't make headlines. The kind of defiance that brings myrrh instead of Molotov cocktails. The kind that believes love deserves at least a goodbye.

I wonder what they talked about on that walk. Did they reminisce about the Rabbi who’d changed their lives? Did they swap stories of his teachings, his healings, those moments when his words made the world seem wider somehow?

Or did they walk in the heavy silence of those whose hopes have been crushed?

Either way, they moved forward, step by reluctant step, because that's what love does. It shows up, even when showing up hurts. Especially when showing up hurts.

But when they got there, the story they thought they knew went off the rails.

The stone? Rolled away.

The tomb? Empty.

The corpse they expected? Nowhere to be found.

Reality refused to follow the script. The narrative they'd been taught—that death wins, that empires are our destiny, that resistance is futile—suddenly developed a plot hole big enough to drive a funeral procession through.

Then … boom … divine disruption. Lightning-bright messengers, shimmering with the kind of presence that makes your knees buckle, toss out a question that sounds simple but hits like a sledgehammer: "Why do you look for the living among the dead?"

Because that's what you do in a world run by every garden-variety Caesar. You look for life in all the wrong places. You expect power to wear a crown, not bear a cross. You expect tombs to stay shut, empires to stay intact, and death to be the final word. You train yourself to hope small, to dream within the prison bars of what's "realistic." Because in Caesar’s world, you measure reality by what Caesar says is possible, not by what God declares is inevitable.

Easter doesn't play by Caesar's rules. The tomb wasn't just a grave anymore—it was a megaphone blasting out a new hope.