I am overcome by it, the scene where Jesus appeared to Mary at the tomb.
What was she doing there anyway? It was all over, he was dead and she could have been mourning anywhere that day. She could have been doing anything to distract herself. Cleaning, partying, drinking, working, hanging out…but she went to Jesus and the bible says she was was “weeping,” but my Pastor said that this word can be better translated into “wailing.” So she was a wreck. Eyeliner all over her face, that is, if she even bothered that day. Hair plastered across her eyes, held there by her tear soaked face. Swollen eyes, fists pounding the ground, alone and unsure about the “what now?”
But then he appeared to her. “Why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?” He knew. She thought he was the gardener and started babbling some crazy stuff demanding that if he took Jesus he was to take her to him and she was going to take him away. Yah, right Mary. You can’t lift a dead, full-grown man. Crazy talk. But Jesus let her say the crazy things, so tender, listening to every irrational word, so patiently. He said to her, “Mary.”
Not a correction, not an admonishment for her faltering faith, no resentment toward the finality to her intense grief. Her name. What’s in a name? The God that breathed stars knew her name and he knows mine, and I’m undone by the thought.