Choosing Hope on Saturday

Written by Holly Paulette

I received an orchid as a gift soon after delivering our daughter back in December. I have killed exactly 100-percent of the plants entrusted to my care, so, understandably, my husband had little faith in my ability to keep this beautiful orchid alive. After a few weeks of staring at what looked to be a drooping, dead stem poking up from dry dirt, he gave up on me and threw the orchid in the trash can. Appalled, I dug it out and put it right back where it belonged on my windowsill. I shoved an ice cube in its little pot once a week and hoped for the best--mostly to prove my husband wrong, but also because I needed something tactile to hang onto. 

Outside my windowsill, we had just shifted from distant empathy to too-close-for-comfort in the Coronavirus pandemic. The green buds slowly emerging on that stand-alone stem were a hope in the midst of crisis, and I was waiting expectantly for the flowers.

Weeks passed, and one morning, against all odds, I noticed a little white flower had bloomed. Though it felt impossible in the midst of its circumstances (namely having me as its plant mom), life sprung from what was once assumed dead. Of course I was very humble about it all and definitely didn’t immediately wave its success in my husband’s face.

It’s been a weird Holy Week in my little world and, if I had to guess, in the world as a whole. My Kroger ClickList order failed me, so we’ll probably fill Easter eggs with semi-sweet chocolate chips and raisins found in my pantry rather than candy (sorry, kids). Families won’t travel to celebrate, local egg hunts will be cancelled, bunny costumes may stay in storage til next year. Most of all, our church family won’t gather. There will be no corporate “He is risen, indeed.” I hate to admit it, but Holy Week hasn’t felt quite so holy. 

There’s a heaviness in our present day that has overpowered the holy sorrow leading up to our Savior’s death. I’m so much more consumed with mourning this pandemic than mourning my King with a crown of thorns. And it’s understandable--death tolls keep rising. In our quirky little town, the southern charm of friendly smiles is hidden beneath masks. And in our homes, we’re getting weary. Our kids no longer consider this an “extended spring break.” Everyone is getting on everyone’s nerves. 

I feel that same anxious pang in my soul--a much more magnified version of what I felt looking at my poor orchid. My faith in the Creator of the universe has not wavered, but it has changed from its typical Holy Week reverence to a desperate cry for mercy.

He already has saved us from all this earthly pain--but we still have to wait for the fulfillment of that rescue. I’ve been thinking a lot about that Saturday--the day following the crucifixion, the day preceding the empty tomb. Those who loved Him, who walked with Him mere hours before, were faced with a choice: would they lose hope or choose hope? 

Many have pointed out how every day feels like a Monday right now (and that’s true enough), but it might be more true that every day is like the Saturday of waiting. We know Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forevermore, but bless it--today is hard. The Saturday waiting threatens to steal our hope.

Jesus took on our suffering. He’s not only aware of what we’re experiencing today--it’s exactly the thing He willingly walked into and willingly died to redeem. This is not God’s good garden. This is not His promised Revelation 21 new heaven and new earth. This is the messy middle, the result of the fall, the essence of all we’re preparing to celebrate on Easter morning. This is the Saturday, and I’m choosing hope. This Holy Week has been a far cry from normal, but maybe, if we lean into it, it could be more meaningful than we imagined.

Bob Goff once wrote, “Darkness fell, His friends scattered, hope seemed lost. But heaven just started counting to three.”

May we be a people who count to three, hopeful and anticipating the rescue that we know we’re bound for. And may we see signs of hope, like my resilient orchid, and remember John 16:20, when Jesus is speaking to his disciples during the Last Supper--“You will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will turn into joy.” 

May we remember that Sunday is coming.