It’s Saturday – that day that comes between Good Friday and Easter and I can’t help but wonder whether I would have lost hope on that day – that one Saturday, so long ago.

I can be hopeful, however, because I know what happened that next day – the day that followed the dark clouds of doubt just two days prior. The day the tomb was empty. Sunday morning – Easter morning. The morning that Jesus could not be found.

What would it have been like to have been one of the three women walking to the tomb, in order to prepare Jesus’ body for burial? These three women – Mary and Martha and Mary – had been His close friends. The closest kind. After all, it isn’t just anyone, on just any old day, that would lavish their Master’s feet with the finest of oils. Oils worth their weight in gold, as some might say.  But – one of these three did. Mary did. And now she most likely took each step, with a million questions in her mind beginning with ‘why’, as she walked her path of sorrow.

Martha walked alongside. Did she have regrets? Did she wish she had put down the dishtowel and joined Mary at Jesus’ feet more often, instead of sighing and complaining that no one ever helped her? Did she yearn and ache to have Him back and have a do-over, showing her Lord that He really was more important than a clean sink?

And what about the other Mary? The first Mary – his mother? What was she going through? She knew what He was about. She knew it from the very beginning but was this the way it was supposed to be? If he was who she believed He was then why this? How was being dead going to save the world? She remembered hearing about the statement He had made about the ‘third day’. She knew God was a God of miracles – she knew that first hand and personally. But – death? How was that going to fix things? Loaned to her through arms of God, she watched a little baby boy become a man – a man who was going to save the world.  But how could that be? He didn’t even save himself when the time warranted it and everyone was waiting for a miracle. Instead, he took the insults, the beatings, the lies and didn’t stop a thing.

Approaching the tomb in silence, the women abruptly stopped short. The storm clouds from the days prior were now completely gone. The sun beat down upon them as they removed the veils from their heads, not that it enabled them to see clearer. The stone had still been moved – but how? It would take many men to push it away and there wasn’t one man around.  Not even the guards who were sworn to be standing beside the stone that was now moved from where it had been placed to seal the tomb.
Without a sound, without a word, they looked at each other in bewilderment, all three with thoughts racing through their minds of what the open tomb could mean. Was He still in there? Had someone taken Him? Was it a cruel joke? A few seconds seemed like hours as they stood, speculating in silence what the darkness before them held as they prepared to enter that tomb.

Within seconds of entering, the three women reappear from within the tomb and  bolt to where they know Peter is. Frantic, broken, distraught and out of breath, Mary rattles off what has happened.

“They have taken the Lord out of the tomb and we don’t know where they have put them.” She is beside herself with confusion.

Peter, watching her expressions, realizes that she isn’t joking around and he and John, without response follow Mary’s lead and all three are out the door and on their way to the tomb. John, always the renowned devoted one, beats Peter and reaches the tomb first. He and Peter look in the tomb, much the same way the three women had done not long before.

It was as Mary had told them. He was gone. All that was left was the cloth they had wrapped him in. They are beside themselves and rush back home. Fear? Bewilderment? Confusion? Hope?

Mary stays and is standing outside the tomb, crying. She came to the tomb for one reason and now her one reason is gone. And the ones she ran to for enlightenment have run back home. As she stands there weeping, she hears a noise. It causes her to stop and look. She looks around, but no one is there. She hears it again and realizes that it’s coming from inside. She peeks back into the tomb.

Did she gasp? Did she cover her mouth in surprise, covering a potential scream of fear? What was her reaction as she looked in and found two men sitting on the very place where Jesus should have been? The very place where the cloths he was wrapped in sat neatly folded next to these unknown men, evidence that Jesus had made His bed before he left. Martha would have rejoiced.

Her attention is given in full to the strangers when they ask her to verbalize the cause of her tears. They knew why, but they knew there was a God-sized hole in her heart that was aching right now to be filled by One she feared she had lost. However, they still  ask.  There is something freeing in being able to talk about your pain.

“They’ve taken my Lord away and I don’t know where they’ve put Him.”

My Lord. Her prince, her savior, her  friend. The only One who knew her to the depths of her being and in spite of it, loved her unconditionally and poured measures of grace over the stain of her sins.

A voice from behind startles her and she turns to find another man.

“Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”

It was just the gardener. Or so she thought. She is desperate. Where is her Lord?

“Sir, if you’ve taken my friend, tell me where he is and I’ll go get him.”

Poor Mary! Can’t you not feel her pain? The helplessness? The confusion? Her last opportunity to shower her Lord with love by preparing his body for burial and he’s missing.  And these men – they keep asking why she’s crying. Did they not know him? Had they not heard what kind of man he was? Did they not understand the difference he had made in so many lives?
And then Jesus, to save her from distraught, says her name.

“Mary.”

Can you imagine Jesus saying your name?

Weary from grief and overwhelmed with what to do in the situation that confronted her seconds earlier, she stops. The two angels that appeared as mere men hadn’t been able to help her. Who she thought was the gardener couldn’t help… until he said her name. All it took was to hear him say her name, as He had so many times before and she knew.

It was at that moment when Mary came undone and turned to Him and cried, “Teacher!”

I can just imagine that, at that very moment she was overflowing with excitement, relief, joy – all in one. She most likely did what anyone would do while standing face to face with the son of God – she fell at his feet.

He, seeing her joy return, probably gave a chuckle at her excitement and took a step back and  said, “Woah, Mary – hang on. Don’t hold on to me – I haven’t gone to my Father yet…”

Jesus knew this woman. He had given her grace when the rest of the world wanted to condemn her. He had given her his friendship when the rest of the world considered her trash. He had offered forgiveness when the rest of the world said she was unforgiveable. He gave her a new life and He loved her and had filled the God-sized hole in her heart.

“Mary.”

He knew what she needed at that moment, the same way He did when she stood next to him as he drew a line in the sand, attempting to separate the sinners from the self-proclaimed saints.

“Mary.”

As she listened to him call her by name, her hope was restored and her joy made full once again. And, once again, she ran off to tell the disciples the good news and instead of weeping, she was praising God.

Close your eyes and listen. Jesus is calling you by name. Do you hear it? Listen carefully. He is saying your name and offering to you all he offered to Mary – grace, joy, mercy, hope, unconditional love, forgiveness and more. Are you listening?