By John O’Brien, S.J.
She was sitting outside the cave, with nothing but a wretched ache in her heart. All she knew was that the one whom she loved was gone – the bitter taste of absence. Her love for him was not possessive or exclusive. Indeed, it was shared by many others. But that only seemed to increase the miracle that he was, and now the emptiness of the world without him. It is a blinding ache.
Which is why when she turns, and he is standing there, she doesn’t recognize him. Why am I weeping? Never mind, just tell me if you know where they have taken him. And then the unthinkable, the hope beyond all hope. “Mary,” he says. It is her own name, spoken by him – by him! – and her eyes are opened in an instant. He is back from the place of death, of not-being-here. “Mary,” he says simply, as if she should have known the loss would not be forever. Then she is daughter and sister and beloved all in one. She can feel the torrent of meaning contained in the speaking of her name: a gentle chiding, a reassurance, a calling, and a limitless loving that urges her back to life.
