Sunday Still Came.

There was a Friday once, when a man died on a cross. He died, bruised, broken, stripped. Gone. And his friends, they were suddenly alone. Each one thinking of the last time the man looked at him, spoke to him, shared bread with him. Even the man’s laughter, silenced by the sound of Friday. So much pain, so much fear, so much loss of a friend and teacher and son and brother.

And Saturday – it crept in, eyes crusted with exhaustion. Snotty nose. Stomachache. Suffocating lungs and chests with uncertainty, disbelief, regret. The question, what do you do on Saturday? What do you do when your life is throbbing with Friday? The dead man’s friends huddled together, a mass of eyes with tears. Hearts with tears. The throbbing grew louder and louder, deeper and deeper, and it seemed as though the world could not, would not, go on. That it would rather die an old, tired lady in her sleep, than live to see another day without the man.

But the good news is, in fact, the best news, the old lady world has ever received…

Sunday still came.

Sunday. Still came. And is coming and will come. And that has made all the difference.

Take heart, my friends, in this, the Saturday of your souls. Sunday will come.