“You know, Aussie, on Holy Week we used to go on street retreats in downtown New York City.”

“Did you get anything good to eat?”

“Plenty, especially around Easter. During this holiday week, I love how people wish each other a Happy Pesach and a Happy Easter when they say hello or goodbye.  It’s always felt to me like a wide-spread acknowledgment of how we, of different origins and cultures, can live together with respect and even joy for each other’s celebrations. It’s what I love about this country.”

“Anything good to eat on these holidays?”

Aussie loves her food. Today, for the first time since the fall, Henry joined us on our walk. He wouldn’t go out during the winter, and even as the days warmed up, he remained jittery and afraid. But today temperatures climbed into the 80s Fahrenheit, and he ran out, ready to go. I look forward to both dogs being reunited for morning walks.

It’s Saturday, the last day of Passover, the day between Good Friday yesterday and Easter tomorrow. Yesterday marked the crucifixion of Chris on the Cross, at the end of which his body was taken down and interred inside a tomb. Tomorrow marks his resurrection, when his students entered the tomb, found his body gone, and declared that he had risen.

But what about the day in between? What about today, Saturday? Isn’t it a day of quiet grief, of sitting in the ashes, of mourning what was lost or what could have been? Maybe even disbelief that someone could be put to death so horribly? That facing a magnificent vision of charity and compassion, the world chooses not just oblivion, but also torture, death and destruction?

When we did street retreats, we’d spend the Saturday night before Easter at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, which started out in darkness with only candles burning, sad, sad songs being intoned. We’d be so tired that some of us would go right to sleep in those pews. But suddenly the lights would go on, dazzling us, a blaze of splendor from the enormous chandeliers, announcing new news. Good news.

But what do we do in this in-between Saturday? What do we do in the face of threats, deportations, calumny, and mind-staggering meanness? We haven’t yet fully grasped the extent of it all, what it bodes for human beings and for our future, yet already it feels like that Good Friday darkness all over again. Not just because of the current government but also because of all the uncertainties we face, everything from the digitalization of human beings to the massive threats of climate change, and our ensuing tendencies to look for strong, dictatorial leaders to take over and tell us what to do.

I don’t know when the great awakening will arrive, whether it be with flowers raining on us and beings from infinite planets joining in blissful song (the Buddhist version), or the blazing lights in the Episcopal Cathedral. Philistine that I am, I don’t think transformation comes about quite like that.

Instead, there’s today, Saturday. A day of waiting, of patience. But not a passive day, rather one of richness and meditation, of slowing down and returning to intimacy. Even when you think there’s little to look forward to, even when disappointment hits hard, you can’t help but notice that life never gives up.

There were demonstrations once again all over this country, protesting the injustice and dismantling of programs means to feed the hungry and heal the sick. The courts were the first to throw the gauntlet, the universities are beginning to show up, and an opposition that took time to wake up, woke up.

Today, on the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, and many Saturdays like this one, are days of active patience, begging for one more good deed, one more action, opening our hearts to ourselves and each other. There is nothing passive about mourning, I can say this from experience after my husband’s death. The body gets realigned, the brain cells refresh and re-integrate.

The body is often the key. In talking to a good friend, we both agreed that our bad times are first thing in the morning, when we wake up, depressed.

“What do you do?” he asked me.

“I get up,” I told him.

When I lie in bed, half dazed from sleep, the brain goes into its tape of hopeless chatter about everything that’s wrong, about aging and going downhill.

What happens when I get up? The blood starts coursing through my veins, I can practically hear its flow (though it may be the creek below). The stiff muscles contract and expand, I stretch out my toes wide to make my feet big, give my scalp a massage, scratch at some spot in back of my neck. The eyes start looking, the ears start listening, the tongue yearns for a taste of coffee. A splash of cold water on my face, a wave to the image in the mirror, and the throat gratefully accepting a full glass of water. Heaven!

Your brain might tell you you’re a deadbeat, but not your body. And your body is you, living its enlightened life even as you deliberate and delay, even as you’re still conflicted about whether life is worth living or not. Lower that volume and see what’s already at work, the hair curling where it should, the cool air coming in through the windows. If you’re lucky, you may have an illegal chihuahua like Henry scratching at the door demanding entrance, play and breakfast while the bigger Aussie waits patiently downstairs.

What to do on this Saturday following Good Friday? If you must cry, cry. If you must grieve, grieve, but never forget: Redemption rides this breath now, and the one following. You don’t even have to wait for Easter.