Saturday must have been a long day for those women longing to go to the tomb, the normal tasks that kept life busy and minds occupied left undone as they waited for Sabbath to end.

I wonder what they felt that day as they ate food prepared before Sabbath began, walked on unswept floors and wandered through a quiet house. I wonder if Mary, the mother of Christ, knew the presence of God that day? I wonder if she begged for another angel to appear, another messenger to explain what had happened.

What about Mary Magdalene? Did she weep over the loss of her Savior, the man who had released her from the demons?

And what of the disciples, hiding in back rooms, fearful they too would be dragged before the high priest or Pilate, guilty of following their crucified Rabbi?

Did the priests break the Sabbath rules in order to repair the curtain torn top to bottom? Did the Roman soldiers, not bound by the Jewish law, discuss what they’d seen?

Friday had been loud – the crowds crying for His death, the soldiers mocking His authority, the hammer slamming into the spikes on His hands and feet, the ground splitting as earth felt heaven’s agony. Friday was loud.

But Saturday was silent. Not one word in Scripture about Saturday. The disciples were holed up, hiding in fear. The women were pacing, waiting to tend to Jesus’ dead body. The earth was quiet, mourning the loss of the One who spoke it into existence.

But friends, I have good news, a promise for us all – God is there even when he is silent.

We can trust in that promise, always.

Friday was loud. Saturday was silent. But Sunday … Sunday is coming.