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Not knowing.

I feel the underlying sense of disbelief and loss.

What now?

It’s that Sabbath ~ how would the disciples have been able to enter the temple on that Sabbath ~ alone ~ their Messiah, the Christ, dead and in the tomb?

Lonely

Lonely

I can only imagine the numbness and denial associated with the early stages of grief ~ they, the walking dead themselves, hiding away in isolation and the shame of their own public denials of even knowing their teacher ~ the One who had only just recently called them friends. Friends, not just students, not just disciples, not less than He ~ FRIEND!!!

The memories that must have flooded each one’s mind, gnawing at them to sort out and make sense of the previous week. Just six short days ago they had walked into Jerusalem by his side, Jesus on the back of the donkey (which to their surprise they had found exactly as he described to them) to the shouts and praises of the people, “Hosanna to the King!”

How did it turn so quickly? What went wrong? What were they to do now???
How could they ever show their faces in the synagogue again?

They had given their all ~ placed all their hopes on Jesus being the One who would bring revolution, return Israel to its glory days, and they were to be on the inside ~ the King’s men ~ their reward for being with Him from the beginning.

But now ~ hopelessness.

He was dead, buried in the tomb. And all their hopes of glory and memories of what He promised were buried behind that massive stone with Him!

I can just imagine, no feel, their sense of despair!

It was the Sabbath. No one but the Guard would be tending the tomb on this day. Not even the women who loved and stayed with Him to the very end ~ to the rolling of the stone over the mouth of the tomb ~ silencing all possible words of hope or further cries to His Father. They witnessed the sealing of the tomb, the setting of the Guard, all contact blocked, His body denied to them.

And now… what about me? Can I see myself in this very place, this loss and sorrow and despair? Will I allow myself to stay in this place of now knowing, of all hope dashed, and be with the women and the men who had put all their hopes in Jesus, only to see them stripped away, crucified, and buried in that tomb, behind that stone, with the elite Roman Guard standing watch to keep me from Him, from my hope?

I must stay here. I must know what I feel, how I process such devastating loss ~ for surely I have been there ~ here ~ had my hopes of the promises I held in Him killed, buried, guarded ~ reminding me of the sheer absurdity of my belief that they could have possibly been true.

I hear the accusations ~ ringing loudly in my head even how …
How naive! What a fool! How could she have ever thought she was worthy of such a love… of receiving what she desired… that miracles could last… that her voice mattered… that…

Even now, as I am beginning again, of allowing hope to rise again ~ for a dependable, comfortable car that doesn’t cause pain each time I drive, for a home of my own, a place of peace after 30 years of raising my kids and focusing on their needs, for my practice to grow enough to sustain me, for my presence to count, for all my needs to be met … I can feel the loss as none of these hopes are being fulfilled at this moment.

Still waiting

Still waiting

What will I do in this, my Sabbath of loss? Can I hold onto hope even though all the evidence says it is a lie and I foolishly fell for it ~ and now just look at it ~
dead. buried. guarded. No more contact!

Where am I?

Who am I?

Can I possibly show up…
     even in the face of all that screams, LIE!, to all my hopes?

Where are you in this dark Sabbath? Who are you? Can you show up?

Can you relate?

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