It’s the day before Easter Sunday and I’m tired. My body seems to sag, with my brain holding it up, slowly weakening until I know I will collapse into some senseless activity; movie watching or fingernail painting. The laundry is nearly done, but the remains of our Mexico trip still lie scattered across our carpet, leaving a dusty film on everything. In the corners of my apartment are little projects that are also weighing upon my mind. Set up the TV speakers and cover the wires. Make a card for an old friend who was just married. Read the Gandhi biography. It all presses down and keeps me from doing what I would if my head was light and empty and my heart was joyous.
Sitting at a coffee shop, staring at a blank wall, I remember that I’m always sad on the Saturday before Easter. Whether I do it consciously or no, my body seems to understand that this was the saddest of all days. The darkest night that barely lightened into the darkest day. My own mood joins in solidarity with those dozen friends who spent the day with broken hearts and unraveled lives. To be enjoying this day would to be enjoy the date of a parent’s death or a wedding anniversary after the divorce. Even if happiness were to happen upon me on this day, I would resist it.
So I begin to make peace with my own melancholy. It becomes a meditation on the event that changed the world and in so doing, changed my life. My mind does not have great powers of thought and reason, but I surely know how to feel. As I feel sad this day, it gently leads me into a frame of mind that clears the path for such a feeling of excitement and joy upon waking Sunday morning, that I might be Thomas, putting my finger into the moist, gory side of my God. My heart feels healthy and my life weaves itself back together again. Only through this miserable Saturday can I experience a true realization of what Resurrection Sunday means to me.