Saturday, April 11, 2009
It's such a strange day. I always wake up with a sense of emptiness, knowing that the tabernacles throughout the world are empty, as they have been for a day already. It is a sense of grief, a disquietude that enters into every moment.
The candles are extinguished; at the church, in my home. I usually have a vigil candle or so lit somewhere, but not on these days, or during these nights. My black chapel veil is draped over my statue of the Blessed Mother, rendering her, at least for now, the Mother of Sorrows, reminding me to join my own grief with hers.
This year, indeed, I have personal grief to share, for my beloved friend passed away on Good Friday, yesterday. It is with this poignant experience of real grief that brings me to wait with Our Lady, to grieve with her, yet with a hope in the Resurrection, a knowledge that it is not yet over.
Today, in the Liturgy of the Hours, we read of The Lord's descent into hell, where He has gone in search of our first parents and all of those who have suffered the penalty for sin.
When the Lord finds Adam, he takes him by the hand, "...and raised him up, saying, 'Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.'"
Indeed. This is what we await. We join with those who are asleep. We wait, silently grieving, for Our Lord, and tonight, He comes...tonight the stone is rolled away and with the coming of the Light we meet Our Lord as he arises from the dead, opening heaven so that we may, one day, join Him for eternity.
But for today, we wait, knowing what is coming, awaiting the Light to lead the way...