The Sorrow of Saturday

It is finished.

They had watched him breathe his last breath, had cried in agony as the blood and water flowed from his side. Their grief was so great they barely noticed the darkness at midday. The trembling of the earth was nothing compared to the trembling of their souls.

It is finished.

They took his dead-weight body down from the cross, laid it out, pressed for time. Joseph had a tomb they could use, borrow, really, but of course they didn’t know, had no idea it was a temporary arrangement. They did what they could, washing away the dirt and blood and spittle, salving the body with ointment. There was more to do, but sundown approached, the Sabbath was near. Tears mingled with the preparatory spices and oils.

It is finished.

They wrapped his body and laid him in the tomb. . And they did what we do when our loved ones die. They mourned. They stayed up through the night, in disbelief and denial. It cannot be. He was young and strong, and his teaching pure and powerful. Had he not as much said he was the One, the Messiah? What happened to the disciples, those men who had walked in his footsteps, who had followed in the dust of the rabbi?

It is finished.

Sabbath was filled with sorrow rather than joy. The traditions and meals and rules all seemed so empty and useless. Gathered around the table, they swapped stories. Remember when he blessed the little children? Remember when he healed the blind man? Remember how he set those self-righteous white-washed tombs called Pharisees straight? Remember when he raised you, Lazarus? Word came to them; the authorities had blocked the entrance to the tomb with a large stone to keep his followers from stealing his body. Stealing his body? The burden of grief was so great that every little action, rising to serve, answering the door, took conscious effort. Who had the strength?

It is finished.

They spent the afternoon getting ready for Sunday. They prepared the rest of the spices and ointment they would put on his body. They wondered out loud how they would ever move that stone. They held each other and cried, ugly grief, grief that distorts your face, which weakens your body. And then they tried to get to sleep; they had to be up early the next day. Jesus was waiting.

Who Will Love a Little Sparrow

I have sparrows living in my window. Actually, they live around my air conditioner. They've lived there for a number of years now. Due to their presence and what many perceive as my soft heart, the air conditioner stays in the window, even during the cold Michigan winter months. I just can't kick them out.

I've tried a few times but after the last attempt I can't do it. I had shaken the air conditioner to chase them all away, then lifted the upper half of the window. As I began to pull the machine into the house one of the sparrows landed on the top and stared me down. I don't know if he thought he could hold it in place or whether it was an act of intimidation, but he did not move until I finally pulled the thing inside.

Now I just leave them there. Sometimes we sing together. I noticed one day that when I sang in the bedroom the sparrows would sing back. I went to the window and began to sing and two of them popped up to the top of the air conditioner and sang back, twisting their tiny heads to see the giant bird on the other side. I am not making this up; my wife has witnessed this very thing!

When I am working in the yard the sparrows will sit on the wire and watch me. I firmly believe that I am their human, and that they like to show me off to their friends and relatives. Often they will sit in the bushes just a few feet away from me when I am sitting in our shady front yard reading.

It's an odd bond, this connection between me and the sparrows. Yet the Father cares about each and every one of them. How much more He must care about me.