I’ve always been drawn to the Saturday of Holy Week. What was that day like for those who loved Jesus and believed He was who He said He was? He was dead and buried in a tomb – they laid him there. They wrapped his bruised, crushed, broken body in cloth and poured precious spices and oils over his dead body, cold and still.
Did they remember his words about rising again? Did they think about the way he had spoken Lazarus right out of his tomb and did they hope against hope that he would use that same power to raise himself? Or did they wonder if they had believed a lie? Did they sit, confused and heartbroken, wondering what the past several years had been for if not for Jesus to save the world as the Messiah?
Waiting. Wondering. Watching for the dawn of Sunday. Would their hope be realized?
I’ve been in a Saturday season for almost a year now. The things I thought would happen have not (yet) or never will. I’ve felt frustrated, boxed in by things I cannot control or have little hope of changing. The timing of so many things has felt jarring, awkward, not at all what I would have planned. My hope has been deferred and it has made my heart sick. Dreams and ideas and hopes have died and lie buried beneath what I thought would be. New things are taking root and growing, slowly the new is coming to pass, but the buds are not yet bursting forth into bloom.
This winter has been a long, cold, snowy one in Minnesota. The two week forecast has no signs of spring, and my heart is weary. I’m usually a little more Pollyanna about winter, but the waiting and delays in our adoption proceedings, stress of every day life, the uncertainty in our foster daughter’s future, and my own sinfulness have piled up like the snowdrifts at the end of our driveway and my heart lies cold under the depths of it all.
A long winter. The longest of Saturdays.
But everything changed in one day, in one moment, really. Where there was death, life and love conquered the grave. Winter cannot withstand the power of Spring. The trees bud and bloom, the flowers blossom, the grass grows. I will see green again, just like I have in the other 35 springs of my life. The icy grip of doubt and despair and frustration will loosen and my heart will thaw by the warmth of the promises of a mighty, unchanging God that sees me and walks with me in every season, through every valley.
And this in between, this Saturday, this winter that seems to never end; where things do not go how I want them to or how I thought they would…it teaches me to sit with those in a similar place. To allow for grief over what might have been or what I hoped could be. To be a witness to the pain of walking through this broken world, saying “I see this is hard. I see you here. Let’s sit and wait for the burning edge of dawn together.” It reminds me to love well and carry hope, and be a friend in the middle place between death and dawn.
My Deliverer is coming. Saturday night must end in the dawn of Sunday. My Jesus destroyed the power of sin and death and He will bring His good, good plan to pass in my life. This winter of waiting, this Saturday between the darkness and the dawn, it will give way to Spring and Sunday. I know how this story ends.