There’s a moment in the Easter story that feels so subtle that it almost slips by if we’re not paying attention. It happens in the garden when Mary is standing by the empty tomb, weeping. Her whole world has unraveled. The one she loved, the one she followed, the one she believed in…is gone. And then, in this tender, almost unbearable scene, Jesus is standing right in front of her…and she doesn’t recognize him.

            I’ve always found that moment poignant—but I think I understand it now in a deeper way because of something that happened in my own life. Years ago, when my son, Billy, was just a year and a half old, he needed hernia surgery. Everything went well, thankfully, but as he was coming out of anesthesia in the recovery room, he began to cry—really cry—calling out for me.

            The nurses came to get me, and I went in and sat in a rocking chair, holding him close, whispering to him, trying to comfort him. But… he didn’t recognize me.

            The medication still clouded his awareness. Even though I was right there holding him, loving him, speaking to him, he couldn’t quite take it in. For a time, he wasn’t able to be comforted by my presence. It was one of the most helpless, painful moments I can remember.

            And that’s what brings me back to Mary in the garden. Mary is not being unfaithful. She is not lacking love. She is not doing anything wrong. She simply cannot see.

            Grief has a way of narrowing our vision. It closes in around us until even the most real, most loving presence can feel distant or hidden. And so, Mary stands there, face to face with love itself - and still feels alone.

            And then Jesus speaks. “Why are you weeping?” He doesn’t say this in an accusing way, but instead he offers it more as an invitation…an invitation to open her heart just a little more so that love can draw near, even when she cannot yet recognize it.

            “Mary,” Jesus says. Just her name. And in that instant, everything shifts. The distance collapses and recognition returns…not because she has suddenly figured everything out, but because she has been called back into relationship.

            And I remember doing the same with Billy. Holding him close, I spoke his name gently. “Billy… it’s Mommy. I’m right here.” And slowly, so slowly, his sobbing began to soften. His body, tense and shaking, began to rest. Not because he suddenly understood everything that had happened to him… but because something deeper broke through.  Somehow, he knew he was not alone.

            And isn’t that the heart of faith?  Knowing that God is there and we are never truly alone? 

Journeying together in faith and love,

Rev. Candi