Sinking in

I've never really thought much about the Saturday before Easter, but I think that's kind of on purpose. Saturday is the day that nothing changes.

The first time I lost someone I really loved was when I was 14, when my Aunt Kay died. I was still in bed when Mom told me the news, and I remember rolling over and crying for a long time. But then later, standing in the shower, I remember thinking, did that really just happen? For a moment, I almost really believed it had just been a dream. And I remember later, at the funeral, when of course there was no more pretending, realizing that unlike most of the things I had cried about up to that point in my life, this wouldn't just be OK.

Saturday is the day when you wake up and realize that it wasn't just a dream. That all the bad things that happened yesterday weren't just a bad day, they were the beginning of a new reality. Saturday is when it sinks in, when you start looking ahead and saying, this person died yesterday, but today they're just dead, and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.

For us, now, the Saturday before Easter is a day of waiting. But the first Saturday before Easter wasn't. Who knew there was anything to wait for? I think death still feels like that most of the time, even on this side of Easter. But at the same time, we're blessed to look back at Friday and Saturday from the other side. We at least have that idea, however faint and far away, that even when death is at its most real, it still isn't over.