We wait, in collective mourning, for the rumbling of an earthquake or some great disaster or last hurrah.
We wait, huddled in a room, for the wrath of a Father for the loss of His only Son.
We are waiting for the slap on the wrist, the furrowed brow in our general direction, a stony silence.
We denied Him; now we are afraid that He will deny us.
I am not sure what we thought would happen. Miracles are believable when they are in first person. But we are second persons now, we are the observers; no longer participants in the greatest act of God since creation.
Peter is swallowing the guilt of denial, his words echoing off the corners of his heart.
Matthew is distraught, still, over Judas's mathematics: 30 gold pieces are chump change to him and he would have given thrice or more in exchange for one more day.
The women are weeping in the corner. Mary throws her wrap over her head and leaves the room by herself, holding scents and spices and a plan.
Thomas is saying he told us so, and so he did. So he did.
We have forgotten quickly. It is two days since then and we have grown accustomed to the gnawing disappointment. For moments during His agony we expected and waited, then when the sky turned dark, we thought Surely Then. The veil is torn in the temple, we're told, this is the sign perhaps?
We will finish our Sabbath, though nothing about mourning is restful. We will leave the room and enter life before Jesus. Next year, perhaps? The Messiah will come? Next year?
This is our wait. We hover over seventy-two hours and a promise we didn't understand and didn't think to ask.