John 11 -- because Lazarus never seems to run out of things to say
Saturday is a cave, a friend wrote.*
Saturday’s gray clouds groaned and contracted last weekend before the sun crowned early Sunday morning in the midst of dismal overdue Spring. When Resurrection Day, Redemption Day, pushed out pink with loud celebration, it felt as though it could be my first.
And I wonder, if perhaps in some way, it was.
Soon after, songs of redemption joy still ringing in my ears, I considered again the waiting, the dark cave that is Saturday. The moments . . . the days . . . the months . . . the years that split us wide, straddled between Friday’s devastation and Sunday’s resurrection.
We pondered together, my Sunday morning adult fellowship and I, Saturday waiting.
It’s a lot of smoke and mirrors, really — this thing I grasp so tight like I can actually do it.
If I stay still, close my eyes, and don’t exhale, then I might really start to believe it.
But I always end up peeking through the tiny crack of an eyelid just in time for the the mirrors to fog up and the smoke to wisp away.
I find myself holding nothing. Nothing.
Control is simply not something to be had. (more…)