It's Holy Saturday. The cross is empty. Outside it's raining; the skies are heavy and gray. I read the service for this day in my Book of Common Prayer. There are no hymns of joy, there are no prayers of the people. We pray only the Lord's Prayer. The focus this day is Christ. It's a day of mourning for him, and a day of awaiting his resurrection tomorrow. It's a day to think about him, his suffering and his sacrifice, not about my worries and wants. As I meditate on Sainte Foy's flickering candle, I sense that even her normally exuberant self is subdued and quiet this day. She, with all the other saints and angels of heaven, will spend these last hours of Holy Week mourning the earthly death of Christ by sitting in quiet meditation and prayer. The angel choir will not sing today; the saints will not march. On this day heaven holds its breath and waits with me for the joy that comes in the morning.
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