Today is the day between Good Friday and Easter
Sunday. I suppose it has an official name, but I don’t know what that is. But emotionally,
spiritually, I think I’ve spent a lot of time here.
It is a day I face wearily, warily, after the
drama of loss has receded, and a new day dawns cold and gray, utterly bereft. The
life I had taken for granted is gone, never to be the same again. It is a
wonder that planes still fly overhead, that people are driving around,
hurrying, distracted, living everyday life with a thousand other things on
their minds.
Auden’s poem about putting out the stars,
dismantling the sun, pouring away the ocean and sweeping up the wood—“for
nothing now can ever come to any good”—captures this day so well.
But Easter shows that these days are not the
end of the story. Or rather, they don’t have
to be, unless I choose them.
It’s possible to choose them. Do you remember
the dwarfs in C. S. Lewis’s The Last Battle?
But eventually, after “When I Survey the
Wondrous Cross” and “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded” come “Christ the Lord Is Risen
Today” and “Up From the Grave He Arose.”
Thank
You, Father, for not letting the story end on Saturday.
Thank
you, Jesus, for Your obedience, even in humiliation, torture, and death.
Thank
You, Spirit, for walking with me through my life’s own little Saturdays—even
the ones I linger in for years—and for comforting me, for reminding me that the
story doesn’t end on Saturday.
