For decades I looked forward to Saturdays.
When I was a child it meant a day off school and an opportunity for freedom. Many Saturdays were spent playing outside or riding along with my dad to the hardware store to pick up needed items for a home project.
A little older and I used up my Saturday at the horse barn. Mucking stalls, riding a little and hanging out with sawdust and hay and sweaty animals and people.
Older still and Saturdays meant date nights. Squeezing in fun between long days in a college classroom and part time work were what Saturdays were made for. Catching a movie, going dancing or taking a ride in the country were favorite past times.
Then came children and for awhile Saturdays represented the only time I was not solely responsible for four little lives. The only day I might get a chance to take a bath without small heads peeking around the doorway with some “emergency”.
Later, as they grew, Saturdays were spent at basketball games where three boys played on three different teams and it took all morning and into early afternoon for everyone to finish up. Sack lunches were the order of the day as we cheered and waited, waited and cheered. We went home exhausted and managed a little yard work before hitting the bed.
Children grow into adulthood and Saturdays continued to reflect changing needs, priorities and schedules but almost always meant some family time despite the many responsibilities of each of us. We managed to squeeze in family work days, family fun days, family trips, family movie nights. It was beautiful.
And then came one Saturday.
A Saturday I’d like to forget if it didn’t mean forgetting Dominic.
Now Saturday is a reminder of the doorbell,
of the news,
of the horror,
of the disbelief.
In some ways it is fitting that my heart is brought back around to this pain every Saturday because as a believer in Jesus, every Sunday is meant to recall the resurrection of Christ.
So EVERY weekend, not only THIS one during Holy Week, my heart replays the sequence of sadness turned to joy.
The difference is that I still wait for the fullness of my promised joy. But I’m holding on with both hands to that hope. I’m digging in my heels and refusing to be dragged away from the hem of His garment.
He is faithful Who promised.
He will redeem.
He will restore.
His resurrection proves it.
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