Today is the day of Holy Week when I identify most closely with the disciples.
I'm not sure I'd have been brave enough to step out of the boat onto the water like Peter, or if I'd have calmly collected the baskets of leftovers after seeing Jesus feed the five thousand. To be completely honest, I'm not sure I'd have left my fishing nets to follow him in the first place.
But I can say that, had I been his follower, had I walked with him, learned from him, invested my life in him, then this so-called "Holy Saturday" would have no doubt been the darkest day of my life.
The disciples often get a bum rap for being too dense to make sense of Jesus's actions and teachings--an easy position for us to take, after two millennia of perspective, theology and tradition to guide us. But in recent years, I've come to appreciate the amount of grappling (and sometimes outright scrambling) that the disciples had to do to keep up with what Jesus was doing right in front of them.
I'm not all that comfortable with flawlessness, you see. I'm not all that comfortable with unhesitating faith. Pain, though, is another story. I can identify with the grief of Holy Saturday. I can empathize with the dejection, the despondency, the fear. I know a thing or two about fear.
Thanks be to God that Holy Saturday isn't the end of the story.