A Saturday

There is a day between.

Not the sorrow of Friday. Not the joy of Sunday. Just the in-between — the waiting, the not-yet, the silence that asks everything of you and offers nothing back. Not yet.

The donkey knew this day.

He had carried Him into Jerusalem with palms waving and the whole crowd singing. He had stood at a distance on Friday, watching from far away, as the sky went dark and the earth broke open. And now it was Saturday. And Jesus was gone.
And the donkey did not know what Sunday would bring.

He only knew how to do one thing. Wait. And love. And trust that the one who had called him by name — who had looked at him with those kind, tender eyes from the very first night — had not forgotten him. Could not forget him. Would never forget him.
That is the thing about a love like Jesus’. It does not require Sunday to be real. It was real on Friday. It was real in the silence of Saturday. It is real in every moment of waiting, every stretch of darkness, every cracked and barren place where we stand alone and wonder if the story is over.

Holy Saturday asks us to be the donkey. To stay. To wait in the silence without rushing past it. To trust the one who called us by name.

Tomorrow is coming.
But today, we wait.