katie rose writes

I woke up while it was still dark this morning, my body refusing to return to sleep, twisting, turning from one side to the other, pulsing with pain. So through my restless, blinking, squinting eyes, I watched the sunrise. I watched Easter slowly dawn. I remembered the darkness of the night, the empty grave that met the women, the running to and from, and to and from again. My feet tingled, tangled under the sheets. I finally crawled out of bed, peeled back a curtain, and read this prayer in the sun, slowly settling across the page, shining, silky-pale through the window and the screen: Bearing our curse, becoming sin, you loose us from both the burden of the law and from our lawlessness. You bruise the serpent’s head, and snatch us from its grip. You open the way to resurrection, shattering the gates of hell. You slay the one who held death’s power, give comfort to those who honor you. You give the holy cross by which our enemy is slain, by which our li

It’s Holy Saturday. I’m keeping my room dark, my curtains drawn, this morning. To remember the darkness, the darkness of this day so long ago.  All hope seemed lost.  All hearts withdrawn.  Words spoken so long ago—burned onto our hearts—seem silent now, gone with the one we buried. Even the miraculous of yesterday—the torn curtain, the earthquakes, resurrection walking out of common tombs even as he was buried with the rich, the confession of a centurion— seem only disastrous.  It’s Saturday. It’s dark. *** Waiting—even waiting in this dark Saturday for the dawn to rise—is never in vain with the Lord. We can never be put to shame when we wait upon him. I love these lines above. The deepest work of the Lord is in our soul—no matter what sort of season (bearing death or bringing life) we find ourselves in. *** I feel in Job’s shoes in this season, again; therefore, these words hit close to home, close to hear: can I wait until