He looks at the 12-year-old. Looking so small on the bed. All life, all love, all laughter drained from her. A vision forms in his mind, Elijah, and a widow’s son. He knows the tale well. Grown up with it. A dead boy and a moment of resurrection. The old prophet had already supplied miraculous oil and bread, now he needed to bring life. He laid himself on that cold corpse. Lay still then stood up. Nothing. So he crawled back onto the body. Nothing again. Once more, this time he buried any pride, let his heartfelt prayer fill the room. Silence. Then he jumped a little at the sound of a cough. A splutter. It wasn’t him. Wasn’t Elijah. He stood and looked round, the boy’s mother was downstairs. The body flinched, twitched. Coughed once more. A laugh slipped from Elijah’s lips. He couldn’t help himself. He grabbed the breathing boy and ran downstairs, almost knocking the boy out again on the walls as he went. Jesus thinks on this, it has been in his head all day. Now he knows why. He takes the 12-year-old’s hand. ‘Little girl, it’s time, wake up.’ He waits, holds his breath, just as she regains hers. A sigh, eyes flickering open, she smiles. Jesus smiles back. Her father cries. And hugs his daughter for all he is worth.
1 Kings 17 vv 8-24. Luke 8 vv 49-56.