Wrestling and Waiting

By Cat Caird

Easter Saturday is not a day like any other. It is a day that stands in stillness and silence. A day when heaven held its breath and a dark covering fell down upon the earth, enveloping it in a deep mourning.

For the disciples to witness the brutality of the cross, where their Lord and friend died on that Easter Friday feels unimaginable and full of heartache. But to wake up the next day and be confronted with a silence full of uncertainty and loss must have felt like being plunged into the coldest pool of water and expected to breathe.

Perhaps for many of us we also stand in the apex of our own Easter Saturdays, which may stretch out into longer days and seasons. But it still carries the same weight that the disciples carried. Where, like them, we find ourselves in painful uncertainty and waiting. Waiting in our grief and feeling the tendrils of our loss.

This unexpected day bridges a gulf between death and life and it is perhaps the most human thing of all to be filled with thoughts of broken promises and hopes dashed. Where questions rise up and we wonder if we have been abandoned to fend for ourselves. We wonder if what was said was ever true and we wonder if the author of life is indeed trustworthy.

But what can we do when we find ourselves here? When the covering of Easter Saturday feels thick and heavy?

Perhaps, there is a compulsion to move quickly from Easter Saturday into Easter Sunday, knowing from our bird's eye view that there is a resurrected hope. Yet that is not a luxury the disciples had. They may have been told by Jesus Himself that Friday was not the end, however the feeling and ache of loss was not diminished by this truth. Indeed, they had to endure a painful Saturday in order to reach the hope of an Easter Sunday.

Therefore, it may be more pertinent for us to also sit in that Easter Saturday a little longer, to sit with the disciples in their lament. To curl up with them and cry those heavy tears.

The urge to move quickly from this day may be strong. The uncomfortable itch of standing still in this moment feels unbearable. But to move on too quickly would be a detriment to our journey and healing. To simply plaster our wounds in quick fixes and rushed sentiments will only allow our griefs to fester and not truly be acknowledged or healed.

So, then let us see Easter Saturday as a day of wrestling. A day of wrestling the deep darkness we find ourselves in, wrestling the inner critic that shouts loudly, wrestling our griefs and losses and wrestling the impulse to rush from this moment. This day may not be polished or pretty and it may not feel very Christian.

But it is a day that gives us permission to feel and cry out, to bang on the door of heaven and bring to His courts our despair and accusations. It is a day we can sit in our grief, knowing we are safe to do so, knowing His love never departs from us even if we cannot feel it at this moment. It is a day knowing that His cry from the cross of ‘it is finished’ covers us and cannot be altered, no matter what we say or how we feel. My friends, let us not move on too quickly from this day. Let us give ourselves a moment to sit and feel the sadness, acknowledging the presence of this season, naming our hurts and the darkness we feel.

And we may know that Hope is coming, that the dawn will break and it will bring the light and warmth that we desperately desire. Because it will come. But let us not move too quickly from this Easter Saturday, let us sit here for a moment longer. For heaven may feel silent, but our Good Shepherd hears our voice and sits in the darkness with us.

Cat one of the guests on our recent Writing Greenhouse - a short term mentoring project to encourage and equip women to give writing a go.