Fumbling in the Dark

Eyelashes on pages, remnants of tears.

This post is part of the Holy Week 2013 series. 

I know that, for me, grief creates a confusing state. 

When in grief, it’s like I’m stumbling around in incoherence. Bumping into walls. Nothing makes sense. I can’t think clearly. I don’t know how to hang on to rationality. I barely know how to articulate my feelings.

And I have no idea where God is.

Grief sets us at ground zero, I think. 

And this is where the disciples were on this day we mark as Holy Saturday. They were reeling. Didn’t know which way was up anymore. The One they had followed for three years — left everything and followed, even — was gone. Dead. Crucified by the powerful ones they thought he had come to supplant. 

I picture them in that upper room, wandering around like zombies. Together, but alone. Unable to speak much. Unable to hear much. 

Where was their leader now? 

Could he really be gone? 

They didn’t have the privilege of living on the other side of Sunday, like we do. They were living inside Saturday. 

They were fumbling around in the dark.