The Sweetest Sound.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the tomb of Jesus. Easter has passed, but the image of Mary weeping close by, thinking that her Savior had been taken away for good, is still stuck in my mind.I just picture her there, her face in her hands as the weeping shakes her body, looking up to see who she believed to be the gardener and asking if he knew where they had taken Him. She had no clue that it was the resurrected Jesus standing before her. She didn’t recognize the very one she was weeping over—that is, until He said her name.“Mary,” is all He said, but I hear how tangible it must have sounded. I can see Jesus’s face as He spoke to her—the compassion, the tenderness, the love that spread over His features as He reached for her with one single word.And I wish I could watch the recognition wash over her at the sound. I wish I could watch Mary respond to the voice of Jesus speaking her name—the way her eyes went big in awe and wonder, the turning of her body to face Him, her cry of delight once the truth of the moment washed over her. I wish I could see her face as Victory said her name, as she realized that indeed, all had been accomplished. It was finished. He was alive.I’ve started praying this story over people. Not only those who don’t know the goodness of our Savior, but even the ones that do. Because I think sometimes even we who call ourselves followers forget that Jesus said, and continues to say, our names the same way. We forget what it felt like the first time it fell from His lips. We struggle and fight to listen and see the ways He continues to speak and move around us so personally and intimately in our everyday. We look to our modern-day gardeners and ask where they have taken our Jesus, only to fail to recognize His presence that is right before our eyes.Someone once said that a person’s name is, to that person, the sweetest and most important sound in any language. This was true back in the biblical times of Mary, and I think it is still true today.Several years ago, I went to Kenya on a mission trip. While I was there, I met a girl. I would look for her each time we went out into the village. I could always recognize her by her hoodie—a navy blue, dust-covered Aeropostale one that reminded me of my middle school days. Each time we found each other, she would grab my hand, and together we would work our way around the language barrier.However, there was one thing that she could say perfectly. One sentence that just rolled off her tongue, like she had practiced stringing together this specific combination of words all her life. Every time we prepared to part ways, she would speak it clearly, with intention.“Do you remember my name?”Abigail—her name was Abigail.I still haven’t forgotten.It doesn’t matter where you are, what language you speak, what time in history you are living and breathing in, to be known, to be seen, to be remembered—these are the things that our human hearts are wired for. These are the things we crave.I can only imagine what the faces of Jesus and Mary looked like outside of the tomb that day. I wasn’t there. But I was there to see the face of a beautiful Kenyan girl look up at me and ask if I remembered her name. I was there to watch her features light up when I said, “Of course, I remember.” I can recall the stretch of her usually shy smile, the scrunch of her eyes in delight, the squeeze of her hand in mine. And I know that whatever joy she felt at the sound of her name being spoken by me doesn’t even begin to compare to what it must be like to hear the voice of Jesus call us by our names. It was only a tiny, microscopic glimpse—a glimpse that I will hold close to my heart forever.He knows our names. And He draws us to Himself with them, knowing that for us to hear the sound of His voice is to know who we are. Knowing that it reaches into our human hearts and satisfies our deepest desires. Knowing that sometimes we even need His voice to help us recognize Him.I think of Mary by the tomb. I think of Abigail and red dirt roads. I think of my own story.Oh, to be known and called by name—what a feeling.words by Jacqueline Winstead and photo by Cate Willis