Easter Eve

It is Easter Eve. I walked up to the cross atop Mount Rubidoux this morning and came home in a pensive mood. I took some time to ponder on this Holy Saturday.

And sometimes this world is too noisy. Harsh. The older I get, the more introverted I become. No, really. It's true.

And sometimes we need to be silent.

It was the eve of the Sabbath. The others had fled in fear. Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus retrieved Jesus' body, wrapped it, and laid Jesus in a garden tomb. The tomb was sealed.

And what of that Sabbath? What of the disciples and their dismay? I wonder if Jesus' words came flooding back to their memory. He told them that they would weep and mourn while the world rejoices, but their grief would turn to joy.

I wonder if, in their devastation, they thought he was a liar. Because how could joy replace this grief? How could anything good, anything redemptive, ever be birthed from death?

And we know what they did not. We know how this story ends.

So tomorrow, I will put on my pretty Easter dress and when someone says to me, "He is Risen!" I will reply, "He is Risen, indeed!" And I will sing hymns and songs of praise.

But, I will not forget the dark, Black Saturdays where we struggle with all of the in-betweens of this life. Where in the darkness, in the waiting, in the doubting, we come to find a faith birthed out of grief.

You see, there is no other way to get from Friday to Sunday with all of its revelry, than through Saturday.