A Good Friday, a Holy Saturday
My computer is currently set up in my garage. My “spot” is out here because I don’t have a shed, and Dad needs a place with a door between him and the house. I brought the computer out so I could watch the Cubs (lose) while I did some reading and writing the other night.
So that’s why, if you’d walked past my house this afternoon, you’d have heard me yelling obscenities at a credit union website because I couldn’t get my 1098 without my password and a security clearance from the Pentagon.
Life, man. Friday was one of those. I should have known better because Thursday night, it so neatly fit together in my mind. I’m leaving town on Monday, so I need to pick up Emily’s car from the shop, mow the yard, and get the documents sent off for taxes.
Abigail napped into the afternoon, which pushed back picking up the car. Then, the moment we left the house, I realized it was a holiday and the shop was likely closed (it was). By then, it was too late to mow the yard before heading to the Good Friday service. But I could at least get the tax documents done, says I, no, says the “Easy-to-use Customer Portal.”
My wife and I got into a fight after that because I was snappy and didn’t respond well to being asked to help with a bottle feeding. And then I had to spend 30 minutes trying to explain why I’d done that, how sorry I was, and ultimately realizing she hadn’t really been bothered by anything and we were okay.
We’re going to church, we’re going to weep because it’s Good Friday, and we’ll like it!
It’s now Holy Saturday. The day in-between. A theologian could explain the significance of Jesus not rising on the Sabbath. I’m a poet, so I can only point out this day is like induced labor. The Pitocin is dripping, but the baby’s easing her way out 4 cm, 5 cm. It’s happening, but we wait, holding our breath, and eat a Subway sandwich from downstairs.
And here in between, I think I understand yesterday a little better. The Bible tends to work the same playbook again and again: so if there was a day of waiting before the joy of the first Resurrection Sunday, and we’ve been promised future joy in the Resurrection to come, then there must be more waiting in-between. And that in-between day, we now call Holy.
Waiting means my plans will get hijacked, my yard won’t get mowed, I’ll forget my 34th password, and I’ll have to repent for what I said about the web developer who designed this system’s mother because the old me is in the ground and the new one is, well, waiting.
But the waiting is different now, isn’t it? It really is more like a room on the delivery ward: I know new life is coming, I only have to wait a little longer.
Last night, after we got home from the service, my daughter fell asleep on my chest mid-bottle. I say I fell asleep, but she really clunked over and just laid there, giving the occasional deep sigh of peaceful sleep. I could have done everything yesterday, but it wouldn’t have come close to this moment. Waiting for her was worth it.
Life.
We call Friday Good, and this frustrating, patience-bending, waiting game of a Saturday we call Holy.
Because it is.