Coffee and the Empty Tomb

Based on Luke 24:1–12, the women discover the empty tomb.

Old Jack never missed a morning at the cemetery. He said it was the only place in town where people minded their own business and the only place where he could talk to someone without getting talked back at. He was the self-appointed caretaker of Saint Mark’s Rest, which sat on a hill just behind the church. Most days, he’d shuffle in with his thermos and rake, muttering greetings to the stones and brushing leaves off names only he seemed to remember.

Easter morning, the sun had barely started yawning over the treetops when Jack unlocked the iron gate. He wasn’t one for liturgy, but he knew it was the big day. Resurrection Sunday, they called it. He snorted at the thought. Every Sunday was resurrection if you knew how to look.

As he rounded the row near the gum tree—the spot he always saved for the best stories—he froze. One of the graves was open. The soil was scattered, the headstone slightly tilted, and the coffin—well, there wasn’t one. No lid ajar. No splintered wood. Just… gone.

Jack looked around. No tyre tracks. No footprints, apart from his own. No signs of vandalism. The flowers left two days ago were still fresh, undisturbed, nodding in the breeze like clueless spectators.

He knelt down slowly. His knees didn’t like surprises. The cavity was clean. Too clean. No worms, no collapse. Just an emptiness that felt like it was looking back at him.

He didn’t call the police. Not yet. He needed to think. He poured a splash of coffee into the dirt, murmured, “Well, I’ll be…,” and sat on the edge of the next grave, like a bloke who’s found someone’s front door wide open but isn’t quite sure if he should knock or walk in.

It wasn’t long before word got out. People arriving for the sunrise service noticed the police tape. Someone had seen Jack kneeling by the open grave and called it in. By 8:00am, Jack was sitting on the stone bench beside the gum tree, sipping cold coffee and being questioned.

“Are you aware that disturbing a grave is a criminal offence?” the young constable asked, eyes flicking from his notepad to Jack’s face.

“I’m aware that disturbing a cuppa is a moral one,” Jack replied, raising his thermos.

The constable didn’t laugh. The Reverend didn’t either. She’d been summoned mid-sermon and now stood awkwardly between her parishioners and the scene, trying to be both pastoral and not panicking.

“It’s just… very distressing,” she whispered to Jack. “Do you know whose grave it is?”

Jack nodded. “Fiona McLeod. Early 40s. Motorbike accident last month. Her mum visits every Thursday with a new bunch of lilies and the same old questions.”

The Reverend swallowed. “And the coffin?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Not a clue.”

Speculation, as it always does, blossomed like dandelions. Satanists, said one. Resurrection, said another, half-joking. A prank, a protest, a bureaucratic mix-up. The undertaker, when contacted, could only confirm that the burial had taken place and that all had been accounted for at the time. No oddities. Nothing missing. Until now.

By midday, theories had outpaced facts. The congregation was buzzing. Some prayed. Some gossiped. Some quietly wondered whether Jack had finally cracked, gone and done something mad just to feel alive.

Jack didn’t protest. He just kept sitting by the grave, occasionally brushing dirt from his boots or sipping his coffee.

On Monday, the council sent someone to inspect the site. A scientist with a clipboard and a fondness for phrases like “subsidence anomaly” and “environmental disruption.” She found nothing wrong—except that what should’ve been there wasn’t.

By Tuesday, the lilies left on the grave had started to wilt. Jack watered them. No one told him to, but he figured someone should.

On Wednesday, the local paper ran the story: Mystery at Saint Mark’s – Grave Empty, Questions Remain. Jack was pictured looking vaguely confused, thermos in hand, wearing a jumper that made him look like someone’s eccentric uncle at a wake.

By Thursday, the police had quietly closed the case. No evidence of a crime, they said. No body to exhume. No trail to follow. Nothing to see here—just one of life’s strange and unsettling gaps.

Jack kept coming. He didn’t say much to anyone, but people noticed a change. He seemed lighter. Smiled more. Hummed as he swept the paths. When asked if he’d “gotten over it,” he said, “You don’t get over things like this. You go through them. Like tunnels.”

The following Sunday—the second of Easter—the church was full. Whether from faith, curiosity, or good old-fashioned nosiness, pews were packed. The Reverend preached about Thomas and doubt and not being afraid of what doesn’t make sense.

Jack sat near the back. He wasn’t one for pews, but the weather was miserable, and the gum tree didn’t offer much shelter from drizzle.

When the congregation stood to sing the final hymn, Jack stayed seated. Not out of protest. Just to watch. That’s when he saw her.

Fiona.

Alive. Whole. Wearing a dress her mother would’ve approved of and hair tied up in the same red scarf she used to wear to ride her motorbike.

She stood between two strangers—visitors, maybe—and held a hymn book like someone trying to remember the tune of a song they hadn’t heard in years.

She didn’t look at Jack. Not directly. But she gave the smallest nod. Not of explanation, but of acknowledgement. As if to say, “Yes. I’m here. And no, I’m not going to explain it.”

Jack blinked. Once. Twice. And then he smiled.

The grave remained open for weeks after. They never filled it in. People started leaving notes in it. Prayers. Little slips of paper with names on them.

No one dared call it a miracle. But they stopped calling it a crime.

And Jack?

He started bringing two cups of coffee. Just in case.

Coffee and the Empty Tomb
(shorter version)

Based on Luke 24:1–12, the women discover the empty tomb.

Old Jack never missed a morning at the cemetery. He said it was the only place in town where people minded their own business and the only place where he could talk to someone without getting talked back at. He was the self-appointed caretaker of Saint Mark’s Rest, which sat on a hill just behind the church. Most days, he’d shuffle in with his thermos and rake, muttering greetings to the stones and brushing leaves off names only he seemed to remember.

Easter morning, the sun had barely started yawning over the treetops when Jack unlocked the iron gate. He wasn’t one for liturgy, but he knew it was the big day. Resurrection Sunday, they called it. He snorted at the thought. Every Sunday was resurrection if you knew how to look.

As he rounded the row near the gum tree—the spot he always saved for the best stories—he froze. One of the graves was open. The soil was scattered, the headstone slightly tilted, and the coffin—well, there wasn’t one. No lid ajar. No splintered wood. Just… gone.

Jack looked around. No tyre tracks. No footprints, apart from his own. No signs of vandalism. The flowers left two days ago were still fresh, undisturbed, nodding in the breeze like clueless spectators.

He knelt down slowly. His knees didn’t like surprises. The cavity was clean. Too clean. No worms, no collapse. Just an emptiness that felt like it was looking back at him.

Continue reading the full story here.