2,000 years ago today, Jesus’ mother was grieving the loss of her son. Hear the words of my wife, one acquainted with a similar grief, as she reflects on our tendency to rush past this part of Easter:
“It seems that we prefer to skip Saturday during the holy weekend. ‘Get me from Friday to Sunday as quickly as possible, please and thank you.’ Because enduring the pain of loss is…painful. It’s uncomfortable and frustratingly long. And though we know restoration is coming, death still steals from us today.
But Mary didn’t get to skip Saturday.
Did she cry herself to sleep Friday night? Was Saturday a heavy day filled with grief? How did she mourn? She didn’t know what was going to happen on Sunday. Instead, she endured the weight that Saturday brought. Eerie. Silent. Empty and painful.
As I sat at my own son’s grave today, I thought of her. What was she thinking on this day? What ache of loss did she feel? Is it odd to find comfort in wondering if another mother might have felt the way I feel, on this same day thousands of years ago?
I just want my son back. Did she think that too?
The Saturdays of this life—the waiting in darkness—it stings, even with knowing that resurrection is coming on Sunday. Because complete resurrection is not here. We are in the already but not yet.
In this time of worldwide, collective grief let us not skip from Friday to Sunday without remembering the value of enduring Saturday.”