My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
For Mary, seeing the risen Jesus was not enough. She wanted also to touch him. It is that way when we love. Words and signs are not enough. And the Lord did not say no; he just said: not yet.
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