The sunrise was beautiful. Unusually for that time of year, it had rained incessantly the night before, and in the morning everything seemed to gleam with new freshness. The sky was stained purple and pink, and there was a faint smell of wildflowers in the breeze.

But first thing in the morning I didn’t notice any of that. Sitting beside the stone that should have been covering the empty tomb, I could only think of one thing: that someone had stolen Jesus’s body.

I saw fragments of the tragedy of the Friday before in my mind: the scourging, the falls, the nails, the shadow of the Cross, Jesus in agony before me. I could do anything for him. That anguish tore me up. I should have defended him. I should have prevented them from crucifying him.

A sob shook my chest and I shuddered, but no tears fell down my cheeks. I didn’t think I had any tears left. Peter and John had gone back with the others, to Mark’s family’s house, after finding Jesus’s body missing. I found myself unable to leave. I needed to be alone, and I could face the apostles’ heavy gazes just then.

I rested my head on the cold stone. It alleviated my headache a little. Jesus had made me think I had a mission and a reason to live, but he had died. I didn’t know what would become of my life or what path I should take.

The cold stone notwithstanding, my headache grew worse. Now it was a piercing pain. I stood and peered into the tomb in a desperate attempt to turn my thoughts.

Then I saw them. There were two young men dressed in white where Jesus’s body had been. One was sitting at the head and the other at the foot.

The nearer one asked, “Woman, why are you crying?”

Maybe, I thought, dazed from the last few days and the headache, they were travelers who had stopped there to rest. I answered as civilly as I could: “Because they have taken away my Lord, and I don't know where they have put him.”

There were footsteps behind me. I turned and saw a young man smiling at me. His face was vaguely familiar, like someone I’d known a long time ago. I thought perhaps he was the gardener of the orchard the tomb was in, but his voice was even more familiar when he said, “Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”

I was looking for a man who had been crucified. I was looking for someone I would never see again. The knowledge that Jesus had died washed over me again, and I said in a shaky voice, “Sir, if you have carried him away, please tell me where you have put him. Where is the body we left in the tomb two days ago? I must find it!”

I looked at the dirt beneath me, waiting for a long explanation, but he said just one word: “Mary!”

I raised my head so fast that everything spun. “Teacher!” It was him. He smiled like he always did, looking at me with incredible affection. I fell at his feet and found the tears I’d been unable to shed before. I sobbed, clinging to his legs, afraid of losing him again.

Jesus knelt and took me by the shoulders. He said my name again, and I couldn’t stop laughing and crying.

“I cannot stay long,” Jesus said, “for I have not yet ascended to my Father. Go and tell the others that I am ascending to my Father, who is also your Father; to my God, who is also your God.”

I just nodded. I couldn't stop looking at him. He helped me to my feet. His eyes shone, and when I looked at his hands, I noticed wounds from the nails of the Cross.

I wanted to ask him so many things, and I was afraid my time was going to run out. But Jesus said, “Don’t be afraid. We'll have time to talk, but for now, you must go to the others, and I will go too. Tell them the good news."

Of course he was right. I had to tell all my friends, and Peter, and James, and Thomas, and all the disciples. We no longer had a reason to cry: Jesus was alive.

I thanked him and set off for Mark’s house. Jesus was gone when I looked back, but I thought that I’d never seen such a beautiful garden or heard such melodious birds. Jesus was right: I had to share the good news that he was alive with everyone. And I invite you to do the same.