Unrecognized

Drawing by: Casey Arden

By Andrea Lingle

Mary turned round and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? For whom are you looking?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

John 20:14–15

What happens when things don’t go as planned? That, they, this, them, Thou did not turn out to be what I thought. There are days that wake up sidewise and only recover under the last slip of the setting sun. Days so traumatized by the irrecoverableness of it all that they cannot fall into step with the others.

I love making schedules. I love the amazing possibilities represented by a fresh, unaltered schedule. What will come now, next, never? I can know that with a simple glance at the daily script. Pourquoi? Because it packs enough management around me that perhaps a fuzzy outline of who I am will begin to emerge. If I know where, when, why I am, then it might give me a glimpse of who.

Who are you?

Are you what you do? What you believe? Who you know? No. There is always something left unsaid. I have always been frustrated by this. I want to be seen and known for my authentic self. I want people to know the real me, not the me that says the wrong things or is broken in such predictable ways, the real me that sings so beautifully in the shower. I want the essence of me to be on display on my walls and bookcases. Not a fragmented anthology; an unabridged discourse of subjectivity available to browse with a steaming mug of rose petal tea.

Being known is hard. It certainly was that day in the garden. Mary had run into a moment that would not cooperate. Nothing made sense. Nothing worked. Nothing fit. Not even the burial cloths. Here the known was uninhabited and something was left in its place.

And we must ask: is that ok? What does it mean that Jesus was not recognized? Was that Mary’s fault? Did she lack faith, hope, or love? Is it possible that there was something else happening on the dew spangled grass? What if that space between who you are and the caricature you walk around is the very shape of grace? What if it is not so much that you must pursue your authentic self as you must learn to wink at it. Yes, I see you over there, so elusive and profound. But, I will live as the gardener—for who is to say I and Jesus are not gardeners?

And those days that won’t stand in line? Those are the days to hang onto. Frame them in all of their awkward discomfort. Make them a personal holiday, no a High Holy Day. Hang a commemorative wreath on your front door, build an altar, sing a song. These days are your personal Polaris. For in the space between who you are and who you are seen to be lies a wonderment of grace. The joy of being unrecognized.