A post originally written for the Union Presbyterian Seminary Richmond Student Government Assembly blog.

Lamentations 3: 1-9, 19-24
I am one who has seen affliction
under the rod of God’s wrath;
he has driven and brought me
into darkness without any light;
against me alone he turns his hand,
again and again, all day long.
He has made my flesh and my skin waste away,
and broken my bones;
he has besieged and enveloped me
with bitterness and tribulation;
he has made me sit in darkness
like the dead of long ago.
He has walled me about so that I cannot escape;
he has put heavy chains on me;
though I call and cry for help,
he shuts out my prayer;
he has blocked my ways with hewn stones,
he has made my paths crooked.

The thought of my affliction and my homelessness
is wormwood and gall!
My soul continually thinks of it
and is bowed down within me.
But this I call to mind,
and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.”

Today is an uncomfortable day. Our tears from Friday have dried, but the joy of Easter morning has not arrived. We are still waiting for the good news of that empty tomb. We know it’s coming, but it’s just not here yet. We’re caught in the in-between, the space between the shock of death and the jubilation of resurrection.

But this is only because today, we are experiencing a familiar story. We know what is to come. Imagine how the disciples felt as the full weight of the death of the Messiah hit them on the first Holy Saturday – a day where the future was absolutely unknown. Although we call it “Holy Saturday” now, for these first disciples, it was anything but. It was a day filled with turmoil, fear, and confusion. Their anguish might well echo these words from Lamentations: God “has driven and brought [us] into darkness without any light” (3:2). The deep, profound sorrow of the loss of Jesus must have seemed like heavy chains to Jesus’ followers, who had no expectation of the good news of the resurrection.

More often than not in our own lives, once we are imprisoned by grief or despair, we cannot see the hope of the resurrection and our grief covers us. A layoff destroys the sense of security. The death of a loved one obliterates dreams for the future. A cancer diagnosis trumps the possibility of remission. Depression swallows the light of day. When we feel besieged by hopelessness and enveloped by bitterness, when we call and cry for help, when our paths become crooked beyond recognition, it feels as if God shuts us out.

But maybe God understands better than we can possibly imagine. Maybe even God was wracked by grief over the death of the Son, needing just one more day to mourn before the joy of resurrection could come. When we “call and cry for help” until we are weak but feel that God “shuts out [our] prayer” (Lamentations 3:8), maybe the very opposite is true. Maybe God is sitting right alongside us, overcome with grief too.

This Lenten season, let’s not rush to dry our Good Friday tears in preparation for Easter morning. Let us sit in the uncomfortable silence of Holy Saturday, making space for God to sit with us in our grief and uncertainty.

God who hears our cries, Be with us this day as we let our tears flow. Sit by us, holding our fears, losses and grief in your almighty hands. Give us space to lament what has gone before we set sight on what’s to come. For when we do so, when the despair overwhelms us and chokes off our hope, we know you too have felt this pain. You know what it is to need mourning before resurrection can come. It is in your holy name we pray, Amen.