When I drive somewhere new (especially when the road involves high cliffs and sharp turns) the fear of getting lost or making a wrong turn makes the miles creep along. On the return trip I will find myself exclaiming, “Was that really only ¾ of a mile between those turns? It felt like 5 miles!” or “That seemed like it took a half an hour to go that last 1.3 miles, I can’t believe that was 7 minutes.”

Today is the day of no Eucharist, the day of entombment, the day of only death. But that’s the thing: we know it is only a day. No matter how much the Apostles believed in the promise of the Resurrection, they had no idea what was in store for them. Every hour creeping along: is it time yet? How much longer? Are we there yet?

Except today this twisting, winding road has led to a dead-end. A tomb. I want to scream, “Are we there yet?” Because there is no way this could be it. This can’t be the end. I trusted you Lord. I feel like a fool because today I’ve been led to emptiness and nothingness. Where is the life you promised me?

Today I’ve reached the dead end, the presumed destination, and the hollowness is screaming. My pain and abandonment is angry and loud. My hope is just a small whisper. “Are we there yet?” Lent has been a 40-day road trip and perhaps I had the destination wrong all along. Maybe there is still something around the next bend.

What if today I let that hurt speak a little louder, a little longer, rather than rushing myself along to the Resurrection? What if I let myself feel discouraged and helpless along with the Apostles?

I’m just not there yet, Lord.

Jen Coito