My favorite account of the resurrection of Christ is when Mary went to prepare His body for burial. I cannot retell it without small, deeply personal tears slipping into the corners of my eyes. I can only imagine the anxious night she had spent, perhaps just drifting beneath the surface of sleep if at all, and leaving at first light to go to care for body of Jesus in the tomb.

When she does not at first recognize Him sitting there, and continues her weeping, He softly calls her name, "Mary." I don't think it was done in chastisement, but rather a calm tone, said while smiling. I am sure it is my intense desire to be known, and to know, and perhaps the anticipation I have in hearing Him say my own name that endears this telling to me.