Blog - Holy Saturday

Anyone who has read or heard my musings on Holy Saturday knows that I embrace it as the most honest day of the Church.

God said to Moses, “Remove your sandals, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”

Yet it was you who took me from the womb; you kept me safe on my mother’s breast.
On you I was cast from my birth, and since my mother bore me you have been my God.

After someone dies, there are details, of course, to be addressed, lists that must be drawn up and crossed off, arrangements that need to be made.

I didn’t get a Good Friday blog done yesterday.

Every year I say it, and so I will say it again this year:

Adjectives are the unsung heros of nouns.

This past week, I celebrated my birthday.

Saturday, my father, my daughter, and two friends went to cut our Christmas tree.  Every year, we march out to some spot out of town for the annual sawing down of the Tannenbaum.

I have Reinhold Niebuhr on the mind these days.

Twice in the last several months I’ve had occasion to tell the tale of the time I stood in front of my late husband’s closet, charged with choosing the clothes in which he’d be buried.

We have been waiting for weeks now to sing that very first verse: “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”

The below appeared in the Sioux Falls Argus Leader newspaper today.  I’m reposting it here, because it’s a Holy Saturday-ish set of musings.

Last week, I got this query:
Hello Anna,

My daughter Else and I have settled in these last several nights to read Bridge to Terabithia.

So. I recognize that I have been lax in writing.

After the accident, somebody told me that that best metaphor that they could think for me was that of Holy Saturday.

So the word for the day is, simply, death.