I thought I knew what broken felt like.
When the Roman guards dragged him through the streets, barely recognizable, I stayed close—just far enough not to be taken too. My sandals soaked in the dust of his blood. People spat. Some laughed. Some wept.
But I didn’t cry.
Not until the moment he looked at me—through swollen eyes, torn skin, gasping for breath—and I realized: he still saw me. Not as the woman I had been. Not as the one the town whispered about behind their doors. But as Mary. Just Mary.
I had believed he would stop it. Call down something. Say one word and silence the hammers.
He didn’t.
He just… took it.
And when they raised that cross, and the sky turned as dark as the pit I used to crawl out of every morning, I broke. Right there on the hill. On my knees, nails digging into the dirt, I begged God to take me instead. But silence answered.
I stayed until the end. When everyone else ran. I saw the sword pierce him. I heard his last breath. And when they laid him in the tomb, I pressed my fingers to the stone like maybe I could wake him up with enough prayer.
Three days passed. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. I went to the tomb before sunrise, oils in hand, tears already slipping down my neck.
But the stone was rolled away.
His body—gone.
I panicked. I screamed for the others. I ran inside. Empty.
And then—I heard a voice behind me.
“Why are you crying?”
I thought he was the gardener. I almost snapped. I begged him, “If you took him, tell me where.”
Then he said it.
“Mary.”
Just that.
And suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
Because it was him.
Alive.
And nothing—nothing—would ever be the same again.
I wanted to throw my arms around him, to cling like the world might swallow me whole if I let go. But he stopped me gently, like someone who still held the weight of heaven in his hands.
“Don’t hold on to me,” he said, “I haven’t yet ascended.”
My hands froze midair. My heart still pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest.
I didn’t understand what he meant. But I nodded. I trusted him. I always had.
“Go,” he said, “Tell the others.”
So I ran.
I ran like my life depended on it. Like the earth had cracked open behind me. Like the sky had just told me its greatest secret.
When I reached the others, I barely got the words out.
“He’s alive,” I gasped, “I saw him. He said my name.”
They looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Like the grief had finally tipped me over the edge.
Only Eleazar—quiet, thoughtful Eleazar—stepped forward. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
So I did. Every word. Every look. The tremble in his voice. The gentleness. The joy.
But they still didn’t believe me.
I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t have believed me either, a few years ago. Back when I was someone else. Back when all people saw in me was shame and sin.
He had seen more.
That’s what made everything harder. Because I remembered the way he changed me. And I knew if he could come back—if he truly had—then nothing was impossible.
But no one wanted to believe a woman who used to be possessed. A woman who had once lived off favors and side glances.
Still, I kept saying it. Over and over. “He’s alive. He said my name.”
The next few days were a blur. Some of the others started whispering they had seen him too.
Cleopas and Haran claimed they’d walked with him all the way to Emmaus before realizing who he was.
Then Thomas—stubborn, skeptical Thomas—said he’d believe it when he touched the wounds himself.
And he did. Days later.
We all sat in stunned silence when Thomas returned and dropped to his knees. “My Lord,” he’d whispered, like a child who finally understood.
That’s when they started treating me differently.
They didn’t say it, but I could feel it. Less doubt. Less judgment.
And one night, Baruch even said it out loud, under his breath. “You saw him first… He chose you.”
It made me cry. The kind of cry that comes from healing, not from pain.
Because for the first time, they weren’t just seeing me—they were seeing what he saw in me.
But the peace didn’t last.
Rumors spread. The temple leaders were furious. Rome wanted things quiet. People started disappearing.
Nethan was taken during the night. Miriam was beaten in the street. No trials. No charges.
We went into hiding.
I shared a small upper room with two others, sleeping on mats, living off barley and lentils. Every knock on the door sent shivers down my spine.
Still, we prayed. Still, we remembered.
Then the day came when he did leave us.
He gathered us near Bethany. His words were calm, sure.
“You will be my witnesses,” he said, “in Jerusalem, in all Judea, and to the ends of the earth.”
And then… he was taken.
Just like that.
Lifted. Brightness surrounding him. Like watching the stars fall upward.
We stood there for what felt like hours. Until someone nudged me and whispered, “It’s our turn now.”
I wasn’t ready.
I never imagined he’d come back, only to leave again.
But he had warned us. I just hadn’t wanted to hear it.
We started gathering again. Quietly. Carefully. At first just in homes. Then in fields. Then anywhere we could.
We told the story. Over and over. Every word, every moment. His miracles. His laugh. His anger at injustice. His compassion.
And always—how he rose.
That was the part that made people lean in.
The part that changed everything.
Years passed. Not all of us made it.
Saul—who once hunted us—became Paul and traveled farther than any of us. He never stopped telling people what changed his life.
“I met him on the road,” he’d say, “and I was never the same.”
Neither was I.
But unlike Paul, I stayed in Jerusalem.
There was one moment I’ll never forget. It was during a gathering in a house near the market. Packed room. Lit with oil lamps. Faces I didn’t recognize.
A young girl—barely fifteen—stood and asked, “Why you?”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Why did he show himself to you first? You weren’t a man. You weren’t… important.”
Her question wasn’t rude. Just honest.
I smiled, though tears stung my eyes. “I don’t know.”
She tilted her head. “But if he picked you… maybe he’d pick someone like me too.”
That’s when I realized.
That was the point.
Later in life, I moved near the Mount of Olives. Quiet. Peaceful. A few goats. An apricot tree. I grew herbs and traded them in town.
Most didn’t know who I was. Just the healer woman who smiled too much.
But sometimes, someone would knock and ask, “Are you… her?”
And I’d nod.
And we’d sit under the tree, and I’d tell them.
About the tomb. The voice. The name.
About how broken I was. And how he didn’t care.
One time, an older man came to visit. Limped a little. Wore the kind of robe that said “important.”
He knelt in front of me before I could stop him.
“I hated you,” he said. “I thought you made it all up.”
I didn’t say anything.
He looked up at me, eyes watery. “I was wrong. You were the first… and I never said I was sorry.”
So I helped him up. Poured him some water. And said the only thing that felt true.
“I was the first… but I wasn’t the last.”
I want to leave you with this:
No one expected me to be chosen.
Not the priests. Not the leaders. Not even my own family.
And I didn’t expect it either.
But that’s exactly why it meant so much.
It wasn’t about what I had done. It was about what he saw in me.
About what he knew I could be.
And maybe… if you’re reading this… it’s because you need to hear the same thing.
You’re not too far gone.
You’re not too late.
You’re not too broken.
He still says your name.
And if you listen—really listen—you might just hear it.
