Saturday morning I woke up and blinked my eyes a few times.

My spirit felt heavy.

Knowing the night before was Good Friday but Easter Sunday hadn’t yet come, I sat in the middle of Saturday. I’ve never paid much attention to Saturday until this year. So I let myself sit in the middle of it. I imagined what it must have been like for disciples to wake up to Saturday so many years ago.

Were they confused? Hurt? Shocked? Humiliated? Afraid?

All of the above?

I can only imagine the range of emotions that passed through each of them at any given second. All of the things they believed so long about Jesus. The truths. The sacrifices. The public ridicule and family rejection. They gave up everything to follow Him and yet here He was destroyed by men.

How… disappointing.

He let them down. He failed them.

And I’m sure they questioned everything they knew. Their own judgment. The things their families had said when they gave it all up to follow this man most thought insane. They had every logical reason to think all hope was lost.

Because I’m sure those twenty-four hours of Saturday were the most grueling intense hours of their existence. Friday was heartbreaking and tragic and scary. And Saturday? Saturday was just dark.

But as I’ve heard it so eloquently put, heaven was only counting to three.

And two to three can be the longest pause we’ve ever experienced.

Sunday was an unfulfilled promise. Sunday was a hope and a prayer. Sunday seemed unreasonable and crazy. Sunday was too hard.

So they continued to live in Saturday.

How many Saturday’s do we have in our own life? We experience some tragic circumstance that shatters our world, makes the noon day sun dark, and the ground start shaking. After the shock wears off we’re left in Saturday. More often than not our Saturday is not twenty-four hours. It can go on for weeks, months, even years.

The beauty in our story though is that we know the ending.

We know that Sunday comes. 

The disciples? They didn’t. They didn’t know what daybreak had in store for them. They didn’t know that the dawn of Sunday meant the end of every night. It’s easy to get lost in the heaviness and confusion of Saturday. To feel swallowed whole by the intensity of the darkness. To question and cry out. To wonder if all hope is lost.

But as the dawn broke early that morning, and the world slowly opened its eyes, Sunday became a fulfillment and not just a hope.

And that one Sunday shows the faithfulness of every Sunday to come.


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