I can’t imagine what it must have been like to try to go to sleep on Friday night as one of his disciples. Or as one of his friends. Or as his mother.
Their humanness had to have taken their thoughts that night as they longed to sleep. Were they wrong? Had they misunderstood? How could he be gone?
Their hearts had to have been broken. And they didn’t have the luxury of knowing what the rest of us now know. They, on that first Friday, didn’t know that Sunday was coming.
My heart aches at that thought. And this year – this awful, lonely, socially distanced year – I think sitting with that ache is what honoring Good Friday is about.
So let’s embrace the gravity of the days he spent in the grave. In the grave on our behalf. That is what this Friday really means.
