Covid-19 and Holy Saturday

I have always liked Holy Saturday. For me,  it is a quiet.  It is a stillness.  It is a time where God's voice is...well even harder to find than usual.  I don't have a formal theology of Holy Saturday, except that for me liminal space matters.

Today I am making bread and cake and decorating eggs and filling plastic eggs preparing for our makeshift triduum rituals for here at home.  I am NOT thinking about going to Church tomorrow.  Not planning on begging my children to wear dress shoes with their pretty dresses, not planning on having friends over.  These are the preparations for this Covid-19 Easter a Carona Virus Holy Saturday.

Most of us are not sick, hospitalized and dying.  But so so many of us including the sick and overworked as well as the bored and underworked are waiting for some kind of ressurection. We twiddle our thumbs waiting for a vaccine.  We scour newspapers searching for clarity, we organize our living spaces for a lifestyle that has departed.  We dream of social gatherings we might have previously distained.  And none of these things can conjur up the clarity we long for.  We are in a Holy Saturday season.  A waiting.  We await the uknown.

At the same time, we anticipate the sorrow that awaits us tomorrow.  The surge is expected to come.  More and more and more people will die.  I will probably get sick and so will you.  Someone you love who is alive today will not be in 6 months.  In the way that Jesus' (fucking awesome badass) women friends took water, cloth, and oils of burial and anointing to properly mourn and bury their beloved dead, so to this is also a strange waiting for us- a "what will happen tomorrow?"    We start to prepare our hearts, prepare our oils to say goodbye.

And God is so quiet.  At least for me,  God has always been quiet in my life.  She is subtle.  In times of stress God seems quieter.  So like every other Holy Saturday God remains quiet today.  Quiet amid the corona virus.   I can't really suggest where to find God right now.  Except I trust that holy saturday matters.  That liminal space matters.  And mattering, well, mattering matters.