Yesterday two women carried the cross for part of our climb to the top of a hill overlooking the village. They led the way, as a crowd of villagers followed. At different stages of the walk they waited. Waited for others to catch up. Waited for the children to find the next clue on the treasure hunt. Waited.
I always find this such a strange, in-between sort of day. Holy Saturday. Easter Eve. Black Saturday. The day between the muted solemnity of Good Friday and the bursting energy of Easter Sunday.
A day of waiting. Yet for the disciples of Jesus, for the women who followed him, it was a very different sort of waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for the Sabbath to be over, so that they could get on with the desperately sad business of dealing with the body of Jesus. Waiting in trepidation to see what might happen to them now, following the cruel killing of this good man who had been their rabbi. Waiting.
We wait today with the benefit of hindsight. We know how the story continues. We know the outcome. We expect resurrection.
Tonight I shall set the alarm earlier than usual for a Sunday morning, so that tomorrow morning I can climb again to the top of the hill and celebrate the resurrection. The waiting will be over.