I remember the evening my mother put me in her lap and told me dad had died. I don’t remember much besides hearing those haunting words and watching my little brother roll his toy cars on my bedroom floor.
The phone call I received exactly ten years later informing me of mom’s death is quiet clear, as well. It took a while for those words to sink in as I tried to discount the call.
There’s not much I remember about the days and weeks after losing dad. I was a child. I faintly remember the memorial in KY and a few days later, the funeral in Arkansas.
But mom’s funeral is clearer. Ten years to the day after dad’s, that feeling of nausea that overtook me during the service and how my uncle came to sit next to me comes to mind every time I think of that January 1st. The looks of pity from those passing by and the eerie quietness at the grave-site were all too familiar, even if separated by a decade.
Utter despair sets in when you can’t fully process what you just went through and have no idea of what will happen next. Breathing takes effort. The mind goes into shock. Your whole life changes.
Darkness enters and makes camp and you’re left desperately wanting to know what happens next but, oh so terrified of when that might come.
I can only imagine what the disciples went through on that Saturday. One moment, life was good. Words of light had been spoken, the sick had been healed and the dead had been raised. It was hard to believe everything they had witnessed but they were trying.
They loved him. They trusted him. They had big dreams for what he would do, not only for them but for their entire nation. He would save them. He would deliver Israel. He would, he could. But then he died.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He was young, healthy and powerful. With him, they were safe. But he left them in a dark and dangerous place. And here they are emotionally exhausted. Spent. Broken. Dazed.
All of us have lived through those days wondering how could this happen and how will we ever get through. Maybe it was a phone call, diagnosis or moment that took your breath and threatened to take your faith away, too. Hope is nowhere to be found. Confusion and a sense of abandonment rule.
When darkness is all you can see, hold on because a great day is coming. Sunday is coming. The empty tomb is full of hope. Let that fact bring healing and joy. This Sunday and every Sunday I hope you’ll celebrate the risen Lord. But don’t forget that every day is the Lord’s day. Seek him on Monday, too.
I hope you have a wonderful Easter.
Paula Harrington is the mother of five children and resides in Calvert City. She is compiler and editor of the books, Once Upon a Bible Class, A Common Bond and A Sunday Afternoon with the Preachers’ Wives. Her work has appeared in Christian Woman magazine, the Christian Chronicle newspaper and numerous other sites and websites. When she’s not teaching at one of Marshall County’s finest schools, she’s helping her family at the Calvert Drive-in Theater (and by helping, she means eating the cheeseburgers). She can be contacted at harringtonseven@yahoo.com