Sometimes you're going about your day to day living when grief hits you like a tidal wave and knocks you clear off your feet. And you remember that day as clear as the sun shining through open windows on the first spring day after a long winter.
That was my Saturday and, somehow, in between the darkness and emptiness of Good Friday and the joy and hope of Easter Sunday, it made sense. This is what Lisa-Jo called Saturday living. It's the in between, the silence of Saturday, that is deafening and heart breaking...just like losing someone so dear and near to your heart.
It was on the drive home from my parents' house, after a busy day of shopping, visiting, egg hunting, Easter basket finding, and family meal eating, that it hit me. The roads were wet as the rain fell and we stopped to fill up with gas when our five month old littlest one begged to be filled up with more of momma's milk before continuing our trek home. As I pulled into the gas station, a wave of memories came.
***
It was the day before Easter, the Saturday in between, three years ago that we drove home from my grandparents' home, now filled with new life and new memories as my parents call it their own. I dragged my feet out the door, a huge piece of my heart left behind in that room where my grandpa lay laboring for his every breath. The weight of death was heavy in that room as I said goodbye that night, knowing that it would probably be the last time I held his hand, kissed his cheeks, and hugged him close.
I don't remember if it was raining or if the road was blurry from the tears in my eyes. But I do remember my son's hunger cries. Our second born, now three and a half, was the same age as our littlest one. Every night that week we drove home from my grandparents' home, weary from the weight of what we didn't want to admit was to come. And every night, without fail, we had to pause on our journey home to calm our littlest one with momma's milk.
I sat in the front passenger seat, my five month old son cradled in my arms, weeping as the milk flowed and my son went limp in my arms with sleep and a full belly. Because I knew, without admitting it out loud or even in my thoughts, that my grandpa's body was growing limp with a different kind of sleep.
I cried myself to sleep every night that week and Easter morning I woke up before the sun rose and immediately called my mom. "Go to church...because you already said goodbye. It won't be long..." she told me, as he held onto life for one day more. We sat through the resurrection service that day, celebrating the risen Son, while my heart broke for the grandpa I loved who would never rise again.
***
I can't forget those days, the pain, the tears, the weight of it all, no matter how hard I try. I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else that week and I don't regret sitting at his bedside, holding his hand close, and whispering my last goodbye.
But sometimes those memories are so fresh and clear they overshadow the joy-filled memories of a life lived well. And I fight to remember the way he laughed from the deepest part of his soul, the way he walked with long and purposeful strides, the way his hands shook as he held me in his embrace, the way his steadfast love made me feel secure and safe.
This Saturday, as the memories washed over me as fresh and clear as that day three years ago, I wept again, held in my husband's strong arms. "I'm starting to forget...and I don't want to forget..." I whispered through sobs that shook my body.
It scares me when all I can remember are his last days, because I don't want to forget who he was when he was full of life. I want to forget the pain and tears and hold onto the joy and years of life we shared with him.
***
There's something about Saturday living, filled with fresh tears and old wounds that still ache, that make the empty tomb on resurrection Sunday that much more precious. Because I know that Friday's grief and Saturday's silence were not the end of the story. The hope of Easter really does change everything.
I imagine walking to the tomb that morning, fresh tears falling onto the dust and dirt of the road there. I am broken and weary, empty and hurting. It doesn't make sense, why He, the promised Messiah, had to die. I wonder what to do next, where to go from here.
And then, I see it: the empty tomb. The stone, which took many soldiers to move into place, has been rolled away from the opening and the cloths our Savior was carefully wrapped with lie vacant. An angel appears just as I begin to wonder at what this all means and answers the question I haven't even asked yet.
He is not here. He has risen.
Oh what wonder! Oh what joy! Now it makes sense. Weeping gives way to dancing as I realize that death no longer holds the power it once did. I can now open the gift He prepared for His people before He even spoke the world into existence. This gift is hope of life everlasting and joy unending, tears washed away and pain no more.
It's this hope I hold onto when the pain of those memories takes my breath away. It's this hope that carries me through the fire and water and leads me forward to a place of abundance. It's this hope that fills the darkness with light and mends broken hearts, one day at a time.
Because hope really does change everything.
