In the moment of a child’s death, we enter into our own living of the Easter triduum. We have our hearts pierced, like Mary’s, when our lifeless child is placed into our arms and everything we knew about this world is shattered into a million pieces. We weep and wail from the depths of our souls. In the one final gesture that we have to offer them, we painfully and lovingly lay them into their tombs. Then what?
That is where we enter into our lifetime of Holy Saturdays. Every day of our lives from there on out, echoes that Holy Saturday. It is a time of immense pain when we try to make sense of what has happened. It is a time where we are brokenhearted, dismayed, our worlds are spinning, and the faith that we thought we had figured out becomes uncertain. We are still traumatized by the events of yesterday, we grieve deeply for the absence of the one we love, not knowing what will be next. Yet, there is this glimmer of hope and anticipation. He told us that death was not the end of the story. And so, with no real understanding of exactly what that means, we hope for that promise to be fulfilled while we wait in the aftermath of death. Lingering, grieving, hoping.
When that long, lonely, painful Holy Saturday comes to its end, the ones who loved Him run to Him, and find that their hope was not lost. Death was not the end. There, springing forth after the time of waiting, came life--glorified, rich, and deep, with every moment saturated with meaning and purpose, and a whole new world opened before our eyes. There is joy. Relief. Gratitude. Adoration.
Rest in the quiet of your Holy Saturday. Honoring the grief and the pain, yet holding the hope of His promise. When this day comes to a close, we’ll find that Hope has come to life.