How many families, rushing to the hospital after hearing from the police that there had been a terrible accident involving their daughter, would cry aloud, ‘This can’t be happening!’ Praying, ‘Please don’t let her die! She’s only 19!’ Hearts crushed. Hope barely flickering. The world darker than seemed possible. Then, racing into the hospital at midnight to find their loved one had been rushed into immediate surgery, followed by hours of – waiting. Pacing. Crying. Staring at nothing. Looking up in expectancy every time a medical person walked by. Only to slouch back in despair as that one, too, disappeared down the hall. And eternity stretches on. Then the surgeon arrives, looking so haggard, searching the eyes of those waiting, and says: ‘We did everything we could. I’m sorry.’ Then he waits respectfully for a moment. Then gives some specifics to give the grieving family some context of the struggle to save this precious life so tragically torn away from them. If they’d like to stay, they would soon be able to go see her. Tearful, wordless, nodding of heads. A nurse would come out . . . Then the tight hugs, the groans, the stifled wailing. Then, more waiting. Has a family ever known such brokenness? Such hopelessness? Such heartsickness? The world has just been reduced to this room and that other room where she. . .
On the Sabbath we call Holy Saturday, it seemed cruelly incongruous that the sun could be shining. It was the day after Jesus’ crucifixion. A large group of disciples huddled together, overwhelmed with grief, and so raw with emotion they hardly dared speak. What was there to say? They were living the unspeakable, facing the cruelest reality, bereft with dreams turned to ashes, weighed down with heavy, broken hearts, not to mention new terror of the religious authorities. That day was unending, each minute an hour, each escaped sigh another stone placed.
Then the first day of the week arrived. They rose stiffly after a fitful night. So weary. Senses so dulled. No appetite. Surprisingly, a few of the ladies had slipped out before the break of dawn. Suddenly upon their return, chaos erupted. The news was unbelievable. The tomb was empty. Jesus’ body was missing. An angel reported that Jesus was alive. Mixed, sluggish, sleep-deprived emotions ran the gamut from cynicism to disbelief to fragile expectancy. Then, that same evening, Jesus appeared (didn’t enter the room normally) just suddenly showed up in the middle of the room without using the doorway! Brain connectivity kind of melted down. Reality was a-swirl. Questions dissolved in their throats. Little wonder it would take the next forty days to put the guys’ hearts back in place and reboot their hope! PD
Don graduated from Regent University in 1988 and moved to France for seven years, coming back to the US briefly to marry Sue in 1990. The work in France included working in a Christian School and helping plant a church before returning in 1995. He’s been pastor of Peninsula Vineyard since 1999. He enjoys counseling, especially married couples, traveling back to France (with Sue), reading, doing Sudoku puzzles and sleuthing out good, dark chocolate. Don serves as the senior pastor of the Vineyard Church Peninsula, in Newport News, Virginia.