Listen.
Be still.
I know...it's that day.
It's the day of the tomb.
Silent as a tomb....
Holy Saturday is a day of silence.
It is the tomb.
It is the day of grieving and being still, quiet for it...or mindful of it and trying to find that still silent spot inside; ever difficult in our modern days and my busy loud life.
This is the day when the tabernacles, across the world, are barren.
And the emptiness is visceral.
I feel it.
I think the world feels it.
I do.
Tonight is the vigil and the promise of the return of the light, Light itself.
But for today.
It is the deposition, the tomb.
It is the day of grieving and being still, quiet for it...or mindful of it and trying to find that still silent spot inside; ever difficult in our modern days and my busy loud life.
This is the day when the tabernacles, across the world, are barren.
And the emptiness is visceral.
I feel it.
I think the world feels it.
I do.
Tonight is the vigil and the promise of the return of the light, Light itself.
But for today.
It is the deposition, the tomb.
And the noise, it's a racket.
My kids and the calling across the house a jangle of sound.
But even my kids, loud always, anticipating the joy and sugar of Easter tomorrow...they see the solemnity of this day, a little tiny bit.
The prayers are solemn, the see it, feel it, hear it as we pray through this day.
I crave to carve out some quieting time this day.
I crave to go sit in adoration, but the tabernacle - it's empty.
I feel the loss and out of sorts, even as I prep for tonight and tomorrow.
It's so often a cranky fussy day, because exactly this out of alignment, the soul knows this marking and reacts with a squeezed ache.
It is noisy in this silence, the noise of my children yes but the noise of my heart beating, looking for Him and thinking of her weeping this day.
It is a clanging silence....
So. We wait.
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