"It's Friday, but Sunday is coming!"
This one phrase is filled with such anticipation and hope. If we can just hold out a little longer, the celebration will be here in all its glory. So, attend community egg hunts on Saturday. Get your picture with the Easter bunny before it's too late.* Iron coordinating outfits and whip up egg salad.
While none of those activities are wrong (alright the bunny thing freaks me out), the sentiment leaves me feeling a tad uneasy. It's much easier to look toward sunrise on Easter than to weep and mourn on Saturday. No disciples smiled broadly when the curtain was torn, proclaiming "Whelp! It's Friday, but Sunday's a-comin'!" No. They beat their breast, keening, and clinging to one another in fear. They were bereft, and seemed to be in a fog of uncertainty and anguish.
May I suggest something?** May I suggest that it's OK to sit uncomfortably and painfully with today? Let's sit in the separation of Saturday, with its loss and sorrow. With its sackcloth and ashes. With its burial linens steeped in oils and spices. With its brokenness and borrowed tomb. With the stillness of One who was loved and lost. There was not yet a holy breath inhaled into a resurrected frame. There was nothing more than guarded decay and salty tears dried upon cheeks. There were memories of His first steps as a child and those upon the waves-all marred by watching his last steps to Golgotha. There were scores of anxious questions whispered behind closed doors-unanswered.
Yes. Sunday is coming. The darkness of today won't last, but today is indeed still a day of lament. And that's OK.
Aching,
Cynthia
*When did that become a thing?!?
**Since it's my blog, you don't really get a say anyway. Nanny-nanny-boo-boo.
