WARNING: This post has not been edited by anyone other than myself, it’s my stream of consciousness straight from the worn out pages of my journal and therefore there are surely improper comma usages and such, as is my default. I’ll tell you what, I could not live without a proper editor, but YOLO, am I right?!
I’ve done a lot of thinking today, wondering what Holy Saturday was like in the life of Jesus’ followers. I scoured the gospels and to my dismay, found nothing to be said of the in-between time that is this 24 hour period before Easter. I mean, I can’t help but think that surely if I were one of Jesus’ roadies that of all days this would be the one in which I’d be pounding out my thoughts into my journal. Maybe, like I often do, they felt like these words were too intimate, too fractured to be shared with the world. But come on guys, couldn’t you have given us something?
I am someone who firmly believes I hear God speak to me – sometimes it’s loud, ringing in my ears, while other times a soft whisper into my gut. It seems that every time I hear Him I am confident in that moment, certain it was Him – only to question my own sanity days, hours, sometimes minutes later. The following weeks or more often, months, I wait vacillating between extreme hope/excitement for what’s to come and utter confusion/frustration, as I question my faith and mental state.
Was that this what Saturday looked like for them? How did it feel for the people who’d walked right next to Jesus and yet still often doubted him in uncertainty?
I want to freaking know.
I want to know if Peter was an anxious wreck, praying he wasn’t a fool for believing Jesus when he said he’d be back 2 days later. I want to know if John was giddy and excited, certain that his master was just about to blow the lid off the whole dang thing, dropping the mic on those who persecuted him. I want to know if Mary vacillated, much like I do, wondering if she’d truly had great faith or had been completely disillusioned.
And oh goodness, then I want to see their faces when he returned.
Someone recently asked me which, if any story in the Bible, I could watch happen I would choose. I rattled off all the big ones I’d grew up seeing displayed on flannel graphs and vhs cartoons, but I think I know now; I want to see what played out the day after Jesus gave his life for me and the day before he showed up again, giving the “what’s up now, y’all?!” on the watching world.
Perhaps it’s because I want to know I am not alone. I want to know I am not the only one who struggles to believe each time I hear His voice. I want to remember the times before when I’ve witnessed God’s words play out before my very eyes and use them as a catalyst to stop my doubts. I want to find some solidarity in my feeble belief that when He speaks, He will deliver beyond my imagination, even if the in-between time stings.
I want this time to mark me. I want to feel the weight that was the very first Holy Saturday and I want to use it to remind me to be patient, watch humbly and trust that God and His plans are far bigger and wilder than anything I might imagine.
Happy Easter, y’all.