Saturday

 April 16, 2022

They had done all they could, but sometimes our best doesn’t seem enough. They had watched the One who promised eternal life die, hanging like a piece of meat, nailed to the cross. They took him down, washed him as best they could, wrapped him in linen and laid him in the tomb. Now all they could do was wait. Through the first night, all the next day, and the night following, they waited.

I’m beginning to understand what we now call Holy Saturday. Suspended between the shock and horror of the diagnosis, wondering how everything will turn out, bouncing between fear and faith like we were in an old pinball machine. St. Paul tells us to bring every thought captive to Christ (2 Cor. 10:4-5), and it turns out to be a full-time job. My thoughts break loose like an errant calf, bolting for places I don’t want to go. I have to chase them down and drag them back to Jesus. Over and over again.

It’s Saturday. The night has settled and I’m left with my thoughts and prayers; thoughts that wander and prayers that as of yet have no answers. Saturday is not a good place to be, but it is where I am. I know Sunday will come. I know the Story and believe in it’s promise, but I also know I’ll be living in Saturday for awhile now. I’ll get to know its contours, its shadows and turns. I’ll get to stand face to face with my faith. I know God is in control, but I don’t know what that means for us here and now. So I lean hard. Not on how I feel, but on what I believe; I lean hard on Jesus. 

This One who spoke eternal life lies in the grave tonight, and I lie with him. Tomorrow, whenever my tomorrow comes, we shall rise together, step into the sunshine and smile. Tomorrow. But tonight I must endure the darkness, feel the damp of the tomb, lie on the cold, hard stone, for if I refuse, there can be for me no resurrection. And that is something I don’t want to miss!