Morning broke softly that morning over Jerusalem, skies blue, birds singing. It was the Sabbath day.
I wonder what it was like for the disciples of Jesus, as they woke that dawn to the realization that it had not been a dream. He was dead. Gone. In the grave.
I wonder how Peter felt. Had he spent the entire night in anguish, awake, unable to sleep? Had he paced the floor, lain on his bed and wept, cursed himself? Was he alone?
That Saturday must have seemed like the longest day in all history to the ones who had followed Him, the ones who loved Him.
I wonder if any of them remembered His promises to rise again? Did they hold onto hope? Or were their eyes still closed to the promises of their Savior?
Did they spend the day in cold numb horror as reality sank in? Did they drink themselves into oblivion? Did they try to put it all behind themselves, to live a “normal” life again?
It was the darkest, most hopeless day they had ever known. Cold, bleak, reality. Or so it must have felt.
We know the rest of the story. We know that “Sunday’s a-comin’!” We know that “He was buried and rose again the third day.”
They should have known, but it doesn’t seem that they did. We wonder how they could have been so foolish, yet so often we live like we have no idea that Sunday is coming.
Like we don’t know that this life between birth and eternity is nothing more than a blink and a shadow.
Like the pain and sorrow and suffering of today is all that matters.
Like we have no hope.
We are so wrong. Sunday is coming. Today might be the darkest day to ever rise upon this planet, but it is never the end. Never the whole story.
He is the whole story. When He appeared risen and beautiful before His disciples, they understood.
Someday, when we appear risen and beautiful before Him, we will understand.
And what we do not understand will not matter anymore anyway. Because we will be looking at the face of God. That is our whole story.