" I know My Sheep, and My sheep know Me” John 10:14
It was still early, so early the world felt like it hadn’t decided what it would be yet. The air held that quiet chill that clings to the skin, and the sky was the color of grief, soft, dim, unfinished.
Mary Magdalene walked toward the tomb with a heaviness that wasn’t only in her feet. It was in her chest. In her throat. In the way her thoughts kept circling the same question: How do you keep living when the One who gave you life is gone? She had come expecting an ending. A stone. A sealed place. A final goodbye. But the stone was rolled away. At first, her heart didn’t lift, it dropped. Because sometimes “open doors” don’t feel like hope. Sometimes they feel like another loss. Another violation. Another thing taken.
So she ran to tell Peter and John. They came, they looked, they left. They could't explain the empty place with logic and movement. Two men in motion, doing what men often do when life hurts: investigate, conclude, and move on. But Mary stayed.
She stayed at the place that hurt. She stayed with questions that wouldn’t resolve quickly. She stayed when the others walked away. She stood outside the tomb weeping, and it wasn’t a neat kind of crying. It was the kind of weeping that happens when your soul has been holding too much for too long.
Then she bent down to look inside. And there, where she expected only darkness, she saw angels. They asked her the simplest question that is never simple when you’re grieving: “Woman, why weepest thou?” Mary answered honestly: “Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him.” (John 20:13). When she turned around, she saw someone standing there, but she didn’t recognize Him. Jesus was right in front of her, and she thought He was the gardener.
Grief can do that. It can blur your vision. It can make resurrection look ordinary. It can make the miracle stand close and still feel unfamiliar. Jesus asked her again, gently: “Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?” (John 20:15). Mary pleaded, still assuming she was talking to a stranger: “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”
Jesus did not give her a lecture. He did not begin with evidence. He did not scold her for not recognizing Him. He spoke one word that carried the weight of intimacy, history, and love: “Mary.” (John 20:16)
In that one word, her whole world shifted. Her heart snapped into focus. Her identity rose above her emotion. The way you recognize your name when it’s spoken by someone who truly knows you.
She answered, “Rabbi”, Teacher. Suddenly, Mary was no longer just “the grieving woman.” She was not just “the woman with the painful past.” She was not just “the one who stayed behind.” She was Mary, known and held even in her tears.
Then Jesus gave her an assignment: “Go to my brethren, and say unto them…” (John 20:17)
Do you see the order? First, He named her. Then, He sent her. Because walking in your new name isn’t only about healing, it’s about movement. It’s about living like what God says is already true, even when your eyes are still wet and your voice still trembles.
Mary walked away from the tomb with a message on her lips: “I have seen the Lord.” (John 20:18) Not “I have it all figured out.” Not “I’m over it.” Not “I’m completely strong now.” But: I have seen the Lord. That’s walking in your new name. It’s getting up from the place where you were stuck, fear, shame, grief, insecurity, and taking the next obedient step anyway.
Think of a child in a crowded room. There are many voices, many sounds, many distractions. But when a loving parent calls the child by name, that child turns, even if they were scared, even if they were lost for a moment. The name becomes an anchor. The voice becomes a compass. God’s naming does that. It cuts through the noise of your old season and says: This way. You’re still Mine. Keep walking.
Where has grief, disappointment, or insecurity blurred your ability to recognize what God is doing in you? What “tomb” have you been standing outside of, replaying what you lost, what changed, what didn’t happen? If Jesus spoke your name with love today, what would be the next step He’s asking you to take? What would it look like to say, like Mary: “I have seen the Lord”. Even if you’re still processing?
Prayer
Risen Savior, speak my name until it’s louder than my fear and stronger than my sorrow. When my vision is blurred and my heart is heavy, steady me with Your voice. Call me out of old identities and into the purpose You prepared for me. Give me courage to take the next step, still tender, still learning, but obedient. I choose to walk in what You have named me: Yours.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
