This year, I am finding myself really needing Holy Saturday.
I need this space where the shadows of death have not yet given way to new life and resurrection.

I need a day where we sit together in those shadows and watch the disciples be unsure of what is coming next.

I need some space to say the day after a loved one dies can be harder than the death itself. So can the year after, and the year after that.

I need a day where some of us can speak out loud our fear that we may not survive the violence of Good Friday to make it to Easter morning.

I need a day that avoids Hallmark platitudes, one that says everything doesn’t happen for a reason, there’s no open window after a door closes, that life is hard. Sometimes really, really hard.

I need a day where we can name with shaky voices that we are terrified it may not get better, that our long held dreams are now broken shards that cut our hands, and our hearts.

I need a day to remember how the disciples thought they had to try and piece their lives back together,
had to learn to cook for one instead of 13,
had to figure out how to live like Jesus
without standing right next to him,
Just like most of us do, most days of our lives.

I need Holy Saturday because I need assurance
that depression doesn’t mean faithlessness,
that mourning doesn’t mean hopelessness,
that that sorrow doesn’t mean abandonment.

We can sit together, and walk with each other through the hard things, because even if Sunday’s coming, it’s not here yet. And that’s ok.