In the dark gap the silence howls.
One day at the chasm’s brink gets chapters. Two days plummeted into its blackness get no words but brief enemy plot. Otherwise silence. Silence of the scattered lambs, too frightened even to bleat.
They draw together again in the darkness. But what do they say? What are their words? We find none.
Can there be words for this horror of despair? Nothing.
Between the lines, a great, black gap. Abyss of darkness too deep for eyes or mind to sound full down—
between the verses…
Matthew 27:66 and 28:1,
Mark 15:47 and 16:1,
Luke 23:56 and 24:1,
John 19:42 and 20:1.
Millimeter nothingness on a page, but to hearts beaten dull, minds maimed numb, an infinity of soundless, boundless grief.
It’s in the gap you don’t know what you know you ought to know.
“I don’t even know if there is a God!” she moaned, who came to me when her world fell shattered.
“Tell me what you know,” he probed when I flailed around in confusion.
“I don’t know what I know,” I answered. “I don’t know if I know anything!”
I meant about God.
Sometimes we don’t.
The darkness rules, giant oppressor, signing out taunts.
Clues to light’s reality lie all around, but we’re in darkness, and our souls are blurred so how can we see?
Sit listening in the darkness. For the still small voice of Light. Call out in silent cry for it (for Him) to tell you what you know you ought to know, and then wait soundless and it will dawn. Look on the page, just after the gap. There’s where the glory shines. And there is a Lifeline to the other side.
“Now on the first of the week Mary Magdalene went to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been rolled away…”
*****
Linked to
This is wonderful, the way you’ve written it, “Millimeter nothingness on a page, but to hearts beaten dull, minds maimed numb, an infinity of soundless, boundless grief.” It must have been awful, that dark waiting period. Something for us to call on when we are in our own dark moments. Thank you.
Yes, Courtney, when I consider the dark confusion of disappointment those disciples must have been experiencing, it dwarfs all mine. So good to be this side of the cross, and know.
How do we embrace this sweet pause of uncertainty in the Gospel story? I feel like I’m holding my breath, imagining the growing light within tomb beside the empty cloths. Oh, Jesus, how could I have ever doubted you?
Yes, JoAnn, it is so sweet to be this side of the cross and know the light grows within the tomb beside the empty cloths. It’s also sweet to see grace here in its greatness, for all those baffled followers who can’t yet see the beginning beyond the end—and realize it’s the same grace I can call on whenever I need it, pleading, “I believe; help Thou my unbelief!” (And He does.)