I woke up worried. Worried about something that happened 2ooo years ago when I could do little about it. I woke up worried about the disciples.
Anyone who has ever buried a loved one knows the agony of loss. Those first few days are a blur of emotions and activities. Shock, anger, sadness, you name it. A veritable carousel of hurt.
So imagine the disciples. They had a few short years with a charismatic leader. They had been heralded and questioned. They'd seen miraculous healing and feeding and teaching. From the humble shores of Galilee they left everything and wandered around with this guy. And just days ago, they watched as Jerusalem erupted in praise to welcome this same guy into the city.
They watched, some ran, as their leader was arrested and marched to a dubious trial under shady leadership. They witnessed the whipping, the berating, the execution. And now? Now he was gone. Maybe some of his words began to itch at the back of their heads, beginning to make sense, words about going away, and coming back or something?
That bleak Saturday when nothing made sense and everything was gone, that was the beginning of their ministry. They didn't know it yet, but many of them would rise from their hurt to do amazing things, like start The Church, spread the news, even die, for what they'd seen.
But, on this Saturday, they were still on the carousel of hurt. Their hearts shattered, their leader gone. We can press Fast Forward and skip over the hollowness of that Saturday because we know the ending, we know what the women found on Sunday, we know the victory. They did not have that luxury.
So I woke up worried. Worried about their hearts. Thankful for access to the end of the story, but urged to remember that what makes Sunday's events more powerful is that empty trudge through loss.