Entry 019

It’s the day before Easter. Today is a day in a story I’ve heard many times as a Christian—a day that didn’t mean much to me before. It isn’t the day Jesus was crucified and died nor is it the day he was resurrected. But this year, I felt the need to read the story again. There was something about it this time—something about how it was articulated and how the sequences reflect those of my story in a way I hadn’t yet pieced together—that made the words hit me like a punch to the gut.

Jesus was killed on Friday. The next day, Saturday, was the Sabbath. On Saturday, his followers could do nothing but ponder and mourn. They couldn’t look for answers of who betrayed their teacher and they couldn’t finish tending to his body. Jesus was dead and they just had to wait.

I wonder if they questioned God’s existence on Saturday. I wonder if they cried and shouted in grief and fear that Jesus’s death was for nothing. I wonder if they had any hope while they sat in the absence of the person who promised them light. I wonder if the silence and loneliness of Saturday made them doubt everything they thought life would be.

God could’ve risen Jesus on Saturday. He could’ve skipped the day of pain and grief. But he carved out a Saturday in the story—a day of waiting and sorrow and wondering if a Sunday was coming. He was there, but He didn’t act. He listened and He watched. He allowed the hurt and sadness. He gave them a day of reflection and giving up all control. And then He gave them Sunday.

This is my Saturday. These nearly two years of uncertainty and hopelessness are my Saturday. But God is still with me, even if He is silent. One day, I’ll wake up and it’ll be my Sunday.

Emily Lindquist