And there’s silence.
We have accounts—vivid details, actually—about Jesus’ death and resurrection, but the day in between, nothing.
No details. No information.
And this causes me to contemplate, to imagine, to wonder.
It was Sabbath for the Jews, so they’d be at the temple. Typically, this is where Jesus would have been found, talking to the priests and leaders. Maybe he’d even be turning over some tables, expressing a bit of righteous anger. Remember?
But not this Saturday.
Instead, he was in a tomb. Not only silent, but silenced by death. No breath, no blood, no life.
All was silent.
Where might His followers have been? In hiding? Fearing for their lives, too? Trying to figure out what to do next?
How might they have been feeling? Scared? Confused? Grief-stricken? Disillusioned?
And what about Mary, his mother? Remember the young girl, only thirty-three years prior, who’d said to the angel, “I am the Lord’s servant, may it be to me as you have said.”
I’m a mom, and I can’t begin to imagine my son dying, especially in such a horrific way. Much less watching it all, up close and personal, or observing those who were casting lots and hurling insults at my son, my beloved child.
If I were Mary on this day, my heart would be heavy, filled with grief. Maybe even anger. Then again, my heart might be numb.
Too much. Too soon. Too painful.
Might she have been questioning everything? The angel’s visit? Her response?
She knew a little, but no where near the entire story of her son’s existence. At this moment, and on this day, she was a mom. And her son was dead. The one she bore, the one she fed, the one she watched grow from a boy to a man had breathed his last breath.
And now what?
We commemorate Good Friday, the day of His death, and Easter Sunday, the day of his resurrection, but have we thoughtfully considered the significance of Saturday, the day in between?
What does this silence represent?
In life—well, at least in mine—there have been times when God has seemingly been silent. Sometimes, I have questioned whether or not He was there, or if He was listening.
But here lately, I’ve found solace and strength in the silence. For it’s been in silence that I’ve learned to hear, really hear, God’s still, small voice. But more than merely hearing it, I’ve learned to trust it, to expect it, and to heed it.
The time in between may be silent, but it is never wasted. Never, ever wasted.
For, you see, Sunday’s a comin’!
© 2019 JADA SWANSON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED