Kindness That Waits in the Silence: Holy Saturday At the Easter Vigil in the Holy Night of Easter

The light does not shout. It flickers. It waits.
Each flame holding space in the darkness — not with answers, but with presence.
This is the kindness of Holy Saturday: not the kind that fixes, but the kind that stays.

“Then God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. God saw how good the light was.” Genesis 1:3

In the beginning, there was darkness. And into that darkness, God spoke: Let there be light.

Holy Saturday echoes that very first moment. It begins in silence, in shadow. A stone seals the tomb. Hope seems buried. But beneath the surface, something is already stirring.

The women come, bringing the spices they had prepared. Quiet. Grieving. Faithful.
They do not expect resurrection, they only want to be near him.
But the stone is already rolled away.

Before anyone sees the Risen Lord, there is this: a small act of love. The carrying of spices. The willingness to get closer, even in grief.
This is the kindness of Holy Saturday. It is not the dramatic kind, but the gentle kind. The kind that shows up anyway.

Holy Saturday is a bridge between sorrow and joy, death and life, darkness and light.
We are not asked to celebrate yet.
We are asked to wait.
To keep vigil.
To trust that the same God who once said “Let there be light” will speak it again, this time into the heart of a tomb.

And so we watch. We hope. We stay.

Photo: Karen Curjel, Lisbon, Portugal