The day between the old and the new, the end and the beginning.
Whatever you call it, today is a quiet, waiting sort of day. Last night, we watched as Jesus died and was buried.
Tomorrow we will rise early, greet the dawn, and celebrate the resurrection.
Today we take stock.
We do quiet things.
Tidy the house.
Cut the grass.
Prepare food for tomorrow's feast.
Watch and wait.
With the knowledge of hindsight, our wait is full of anticipation and barely contained excitement. Or, it is full of sighing and weariness, and anxiously checking and double checking that everything's going to be ready for tomorrow.
As a child and a young woman, Easter started on Saturday evening, the Easter vigil beginning as the sun goes down, with fire and candlelight, and ritual and blessings.
Then as I changed churches it moved to beginning early on Sunday morning with sunrise services, down by the riverside, singing the story to dog walkers and Sunday joggers.
And, then, I became the one responsible for making it happen. The minister. The responsibility weighted, felt, carried, engendering questions - what if no one comes? What if they do and they don't like the offering? What if it doesn't work, I don't honour God? Will my words be a blessing, or will I fail?
Insecurity is no stranger to the preacher. And long may it remain so. My insecurity means I rely on the Spirit to inspire me, to lead me, I rely on God's loving, gentle prompting. My strength comes from God, and God alone.
So on this Easter Saturday as I contemplate again the resurrection and what to say and how to lead the people out of the darkness into the new light of hope and joy, I wait, with baited breath, ready to proclaim aloud, for all to hear, "Christ is risen!" And pray that the people will respond, "He is risen indeed! Alleluia!! "