My church recently finished a study by John Ortberg, Who is this Man?: The Unpredictable Impact of the Inescapable Jesus. The last week of the study was to talk about Saturday of Holy Week. We often talk a lot about Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday but we often spend little time considering Silent Saturday.
We are so excited about the awesome news of Sunday that we bypass the sadness and anguish of Saturday. I thought this was really poignant in my own life right now. I’m in my Saturday and have been for quite a few months, 4 I think. I got a rejection letter this past week that literally excited me. They let me know how great my experience is and how awesome my resume was but they went with someone else. I was excited to recieve news even though the answer was a resounding, “no.” I’ve had silence and no news for 4 long months, so long that sometimes it feels like 5. I’ve read 47 books in that amount of time and watched too many TV series and knitted the beginnings of a lot of blankets. My Saturday is filled with moments of silence and moments of crying out and moments of fear. My Saturday is the Silent Saturday and all the anguish that goes a long with that.
Being fired was my Friday. My Saturday has been all this time of trying to find something and I am on my knees praying that my Sunday will come, that I will be lifted from the pain and be welcomed back into the work force.
We all have these times in our lives where something happens or the absence of something is our Friday-Sunday. Don’t dismiss the importance of your Saturday because Silent Saturday makes us even more excited for Resurrection Sunday.
What are you third day stories? Did your Sunday come quick or will it be a long hard battle to see your Sunday?
Comment below if you would like to share your third day stories with me.
I can’t believe that I’ve only been in Denver since Wednesday. I feel like I have been here for years.
One of the most impactful moments was seeing my grandmother’s body in the casket last night. We walked into the room and there was just the shell of the person who was there and all the denial and things I was holding on to went away.
“She really is gone” I said before weeping (loudly) on my dad’s shoulder. She really isn’t here anymore. I’m sleeping in the room that was her office and typing this blog on her computer (where she bookmarked the page) and she’s not here anymore.
She won’t be laughing, drinking scotch, making dinners and cookies, and saying “Sam Hell” any more. I know she’s in a better place and that she isn’t suffering anymore but that leaves me with little comfort. I’m sad.
I want to see her face but seeing her in that coffin really made it real. I’m glad that she provided that for us and that she made it part of the deal (she had 8 pages of instructions for her funeral and viewing because that’s just the kind of person she was).
I’m glad because it made it real. I’m glad because I could see that she wasn’t in that room. I could leave her body behind because she isn’t there anymore. All that was left was the shell.
My dad and uncle kept saying that’s not her. They kept saying that the funeral home botched the job. But really when I think about Grandma and her face I see the life she brought. I see the smile on her face and the jokes and sarcasm that dripped off her tongue. I see the hugs and the love that she freely gave. She’s not her body and when her soul left all that was left was the shell.
She’s really not here anymore. I’m sad and selfish and wish that she was and there’s tons of things I wish I had said and tons of things I wish I had done but regrets are worthless. So I choose instead to focus on the fond memories I have of summers of being with her and in the last year or so the connection that we made through email and texts. She often had encouraging words and she would say that she was proud of me. Which let’s face it is all of our goals in life: to make someone proud of us. I know other people are proud of me to but the love that we shared was special and now she’s gone and it sucks.
It’s so hard for me to get close to people and trust them and it is in times like these with great pain and suffering that I wonder if it is worth it. I mean deep down I know it is but right now I’m in pain, laying down on the floor in the fetal postion, slamming my fists on the floor, crying out to God “why,” kind of pain. And all I know is the pain.
Maybe tomorrow I will remember that getting closer to people has benefits but right now all I see and feel is the pain.