Holy Saturday.  The Word of God is silent.  So where are your words, your words that are spirit and life?  Today I feel abandoned, left to fend for myself in a world—once filled with songs, with beauty and laughter—now reduced to a barren waste.  There is no Eucharist and your churches have become an empty shell, bringing more painful memories of what once was, instead of sustaining my hungry soul with the Bread of Life.

With the Word dead, there is no meaning and all I am left with is a “tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”  Because you are gone.

And in this moment I must turn to my mother.  Only she can console me in the confusion and the sorrow.  For she has guarded and treasured God’s Word in her heart.  She has let it transform her and seep into every fiber of her being.

Mary!  Where is Jesus and why do I feel so alone?  Has he abandoned me?  The only answer to my prayers has been that silent tombstone, and in that tomb lies my hope.  Mother, teach me that life is not a continuous Holy Saturday (we couldn’t bear it!), and while I may not see him, may not hear his voice right now, remind me that he has promised resurrection.  I don’t know how you survived that Saturday except for Christ’s promise.  I have no idea how much you suffered.

So walk with me.  Take my hands in yours and hold me tight.  Show me the empty tomb and whisper truth and consolation.  Whisper the Word that Lives.

Photo Credit: waleed hider