The Day of Preparation

I can only think of two Easter dinners I haven't at least partially hosted since I left college (and, actually, at least one I hosted at someone else's house when I was in college).  Holy Saturday is, for me, the Day of Preparation.

In the midst of the shopping and cleaning and cooking and getting out the good tablecloths and dusting and throwing open the doors (at last!  a warm spring day!) I think about what that Good Friday--that Day of Preparation for the Sabbath (the Passover Sabbath, in particular) may have looked like.  I think about the women, in particular, who had already cleaned the house for the Passover--scrubbing and sweeping and searching for any hint of leaven in the smallest cracks--prepared and served the meal on Thursday night, and who were then preparing all of the food for two days' needs, since they would be unable to cheat, as I will likely do, and finally sweep the floor in the morning.

I think about the women who followed to the foot of the cross and those who found out later from their friends.  I think about the women who then spent the Sabbath sitting still, this Holy Saturday, realizing that the tangible work of their grief had to be put off for the day, making the somber task of caring for the dead even more difficult.

---

Holy Saturday is a bit of a conundrum for me.  When we leave in the silent darkness of Good Friday, I know it's not magic that brings about the Sunday morning celebration. 

This morning, a small group of us set out flowers, changed paraments, sailed banners high on the pitched ceiling, and prepared eucharistic elements.  I listened to the brass players rehearse the hymns and alleluias for tomorrow.  It's all ready.  Waiting for the early morning proclamation.

And this afternoon, I joined the crowds in the grocery store, stocked the ham and potatoes, picked up the bakery rolls, made the egg bake for brunch at church, and set out Jo's Easter dress.

Sometimes I have wondered if my joyful preparations that anticipate the morning disrespect the gloom of that first Holy Saturday.  I wonder if I move too quickly past Friday afternoon as I boil the eggs for dyeing and put the flowers on the table. 

But the preparation is not the feast.  The work is not the reward of rest--as joyful and satisfying as the work may be.  This is a day when I smell the mix of furniture polish and bleach on my hands at the end of it.  This is the Day of Preparation because of the promise of that first Day of Preparation.  Because of that Friday when, amid the flurry of holiday shopping and cleaning and cooking, the death of someone who appeared to be a common criminal changed everything.

And because those first witnesses on Sunday morning knew about preparation, they were prepared for death.  But because of what they found and the story they have told, I have the privilege of preparing for life.