After the crucifixion, after the temple veil rent and the walls fell and Christ's body laid in the tomb, there was Holy Saturday. A day of waiting. A day of uncertainty, of darkness, of despair. For twenty-five years, I've glossed over this day. On Good Friday, I grieved for Jesus on the cross. On Easter Sunday, I rejoiced in His resurrection. Sandwiched between these days rested a Saturday stuffed with last-minute grocery shopping before Sunday's feast and furtive nibbles from the bunny's candy stash. This year, I cried on Good Friday, but not for Christ. I was angry at him, and God, too. Driving home with a knot in my throat, the words, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken [us]?" crept to mind. I did not pray. I did not know what to say. This week is not an Easter week for me. There has been no glorious triumph, no fulfillment of prophecies of redemption and peace. Not now. This Easter season, the world is in limbo, like His earliest followers left to gri...