Saturday. Of course it wasn’t always called that. But it will do as a label for today.
Most folk will have slept well last night. But the disciples would have had sleep broken by the infinities of small noises. Was that the door? Was that a footstep by the window? Are they coming to get me? Where’s Peter? Where’s Mary? Are they safe?
And as the sun yawns it way over the horizon, its red colour is mirrored in the eyes that are desperately trying to forget the events of Good Friday. Hoping that it was a dream, but having that growing inside coldness of dread. What to do now?
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