I don’t usually post on the weekends.

But this weekend. This Easter weekend. This Saturday of Easter weekend is always the saddest day to me.

It’s the waiting day.

The day when we hope, but the day when we also sit lost in the sadness and confusion of the disciples who thought hope was dead. Beaten and nailed to a tree. This is the day that makes sense of the darkness. The day where we live. The in between day.

This is a hard day.

This is a day that makes sense of my story.

I live on Saturday. This day where I am so desperately aware of what I would be without a Savior. This day where my humanity feels heavy and lost and angry without promise of rescue. This day that explains why it’s hard not to snap at the kids I love. How tempers fray and sometimes it feels good to just let ’em loose. This day in between the cross and the promised future Kingdom we live in the tension of waiting. I feel it in my gut every Easter Saturday, how hard and busted the waiting is.

Two days ago one of my boys tells me he peed on the deck. Well not really the deck, he admits. But into the little tiny treasure cubbie of his little sister’s play table. He walks me out and points to the pond that by some miracle she hadn’t discovered. I actually go speechless. I’m like a gibbering fool. I’ve just walked through the door with eggs for dying and cake for baking and now all I want to do is wring his neck. I want to pull him up by his ears and ask him through hissing breath what could have possessed him to such foolishness.

I am hot lava and he stands, watches me with big eyes, as it pours out of me. Turns out I have plenty of words.

This is Saturday life. This is Savior dead and buried and no hope of resurrection living. I don’t want to be a Saturday woman.

I catch that wild tongue of mine. It nearly takes both hands. But I catch it and slow it down and send that boy to the bathroom with a bottle of bleach spray and a bucket and I make him do the chore I like the least. He cleans the toilet and the sink and the tiles and in between each wipe we find our way back toward each other.

I scrub alongside him and there down on my hands and knees with paper towel dredging the dirt out of the grout I see myself reflected back. How I am. The inside me. I can scrub and clean all I like but ain’t nothing going to clean what’s going on in my head or my heart. I need a Sunday Savior.

I’m stranded on Saturday and I’ve got boys that disrespect me the next day and the day after right fresh in between their declarations of love. Right the next moment they’re laying on the hiding and the lies and I’m grabbing at clenched fists again and galloping away at the rate of my tongue. This is no way for living. This is no way for family or getting it right or making sense of where we’re all headed. This is Saturday living.

I threw away a silver ring by accident last night. I didn’t know it was a ring. I realized when it was much too late. A whole day’s worth of dirty towels from cleaning the bathroom were layered over old food and left over macaroni and I had to sift through it for what was precious to me. It was slow going. There was the wrapper from the tulips I’d bought, and the avocado pit and the cut up paper Zoe had shredded. There were the old tea bags and several dirty diapers. I went through it all with my bare hands.

This is Saturday living.

I’m on my knees, here with all my garbage, waiting for a Sunday Savior.

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