Holding Space on Holy Saturday

I’m always caught off guard by how tragedy is inevitably invaded by the ordinary. I am sure you can relate. After our babies died, didn’t it feel so wrong that most of the world went on as usual? I remember emerging from the silence of the hospital, the quiet of the house, the darkness of the day of her funeral, and feeling so disoriented by the routine bustle of life. People in cars driving places. Laughter on playgrounds. Shoppers downtown. Planes taking off from runways. Didn’t they know what had just happened? I remember having to resist the urge to scream, “Stop!” How can life drum on when the world has been turned upside down?

But ordinariness is relentless. Even now, years past that awful day that changed my life, there are moments when I’m reminded again. Each time I step out of a funeral service into bright sunlight. Each time I hear news of tragedy and then return to my daily work. Each time I wake after heartbreak to the familiar sounds of lawn mowers, leaf blowers, dogs barking, and birds chirping outside my window. Life goes on. Beds still have to be made, teeth still have to be brushed, clothes still have to be washed, children still go to school, and work still has to be done. But it can feel so wrong to my human heart. 

On Good Friday, Jesus was tortured, crucified, and died. The sky went dark. The earth shook. The temple veil was torn. (Matthew 27:26, 35, 45, 50–51)

And then, on Saturday, the dawn came as it always did.

If a rooster crowed that morning, it wasn’t announcing any betrayal. It was simply welcoming another day. Within the Jewish community, it was the Sabbath, a rhythm the people knew by heart. And I imagine that throughout the world farmers went to their fields, men fished, children played, women prepared meals, and birds kept singing.

I can only imagine that as the disciples woke on that first Holy Saturday though, that the weight of the days before pressed down on them again. How could this have happened? What would it mean to start over? To go back to life as it was before? Their friend, their rabbi, the One in whom they had placed all their hope had died in disgrace. And the world, cruelly, kept moving forward.

In reading this account, and pretending I don’t already know the end, I can’t help but wonder, What do they do now? I remember feeling a similar ache after my daughter’s death. What do I do now? (And I want to say this carefully, my daughter is not my King, my Lord, my God, or my Savior. Jesus alone holds that place.) But the despair I felt, though different in its source, was still deeply relatable in its weight and disorientation.

You know the phrase people often say this time of year, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.” It’s always  said with good intention, and it is true. Easter morning does come. The resurrection of Christ is real. But sometimes I wonder if, in our eagerness to get to Sunday, we forget that there was a day in between. A quiet day. A sealed-tomb day. A day of waiting, when heaven felt silent.

Scripture does not rush past that day. After preparing spices for Jesus’ burial, we’re told that the women “rested on the Sabbath according to the commandment” (Luke 23:56). Matthew adds that the tomb was sealed and guarded, emphasizing the stillness and finality of that moment (Matthew 27:62–66). Holy Saturday sits gently between the sorrow of the cross and the joy of the resurrection. The disciples had watched Jesus die, and I imagine it felt as though all hope had been buried with Him. All they could do was wait.

The reason Christians can call this day “holy” is because we know what happens next. We know the end of the story. But for them, it was just Saturday, a terrible Saturday. A day of mourning and a day life went on, differently but inevitably.

Before I became a Hope Mom, I don’t think I paid much attention to this day. But after losing my daughter, Holy Saturday began to feel achingly familiar, because my grief seemed to live there. I believed God was good. I believed His promises were true. I believed the resurrection was coming. And yet I sat with unanswered prayers and more brokenness than my heart could bear. God felt silent, and hope seemed completely out of reach as the darkness of my grief continued to press in.

Faith after loss can be such a tender place. Grief changes the way we come to God. Belief often looks like staying close to Him with a worn out, weary heart, and learning to trust His nearness even when we can’t yet see what He is doing. 

Because we know, 

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.
—Psalm 34:18

Grief was allowed then, on that first Saturday between the cross and the resurrection, and grief is allowed now, after the death of your baby. Jesus Himself was laid in a tomb, and His friends mourned what they had lost. Heaven did not hurry them through their sorrow, and it does not hurry you through yours.

God’s word tells us, 

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.
—Ecclesiastes 3:1

Holy Saturday reminds us that waiting is not wasted, silence is not abandonment, and darkness is not the end of the story. Even when nothing seemed to be happening, God was still at work. While Scripture does not explicitly share many details of this day, the New Testament affirms that Christ’s redemptive work was not interrupted by the tomb (1 Peter 3:18–19; Colossians 2:15).

Thank you, God, that, 

Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.
—Psalm 30:5

Hope Mom, If you are living in your own Holy Saturday right now, I hope you know you’re not alone. It’s okay to hold space here and to grieve deeply. Grief is not the opposite of hope. In my own journey, I have often found that grief itself became the place where hope was being formed most surely. 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
—Matthew 5:4

As Easter approaches, may you be able to celebrate the resurrection while still honoring the waiting, even as life continues in ordinary ways all around you. May you trust that God sees every tear and holds every name close to His heart. And I pray that, in this season, you endure Saturday in a way that would make your Hope Baby proud.

Jennie is the Executive Director for Hope Mommies. She and her husband Brian live in Oregon and have four children together— Trenton, Paige who has been in Heaven with Jesus since 2010, Mason, and Cora. If you were to knock on her front door today, you’d find her in something comfortable drinking a hot cup of tea, while trying to figure out how to balance all the things that make up a life. She enjoys spending time in God’s word, fresh flowers, board games with her kids, cooking, and evening walks in her neighborhood. She adores being a new creation in Christ and prays she reflects Him well on this earth.