When Jesus’ friends came to the empty tomb that first Easter morning, the disciples were running in the dark, racing each other, up to some holy horseplay.
Nope. No Jesus.
The guys didn’t stick around the emptiness. Why should they?
But Mary decided to stay.
Maybe she felt she couldn’t leave the emptiness.
Maybe there was nothing else she could do but weep.
And in her weeping something happened: the nothingness of the empty tomb took the shape and the form of her greatest love.
And the so-called empty tomb became emptiful: empty of what was expected, and instead, full of something surprisingly and strangely mysterious.
This is ancient and holy wisdom: places that seem empty hold the promise of a strange, holy mystery.
Many of our days are like this: not magical, not perfect, ordinarily emptiful.
In the faithful disciple who stands beside the tomb of nothingness we see emptiness transformed by love.
Our lives are filled with tombs. Especially for people living with chronic mental illness and their families, it can feel like you are living in the graveyard of your dreams.
Yet, Mary reminds us that there is this love that will not leave you weeping alone.
There is this love that calls you by name.
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