Last night, as I settled in bed to go to sleep, my Father gave me another series of images. It was again the Crucifixion. It was very dark, and I couldn’t see it distinctly. It was but the faintest glimpse of Our Lord’s agony. It filled me with a great tenderness toward Him, but, knowing the victory, I couldn’t mourn or be sad.

Then I saw them lay His broken body in the tomb. I seemed to be in the tomb with them. I still felt very tenderly toward Him, but my heart went out to the grieving men and weeping women, especially His Mother. I wanted to comfort them, and assure them that their sorrow would last just a little while. I wanted them to know that God really did know what He was doing.

They filed out of the tomb, taking the dim torchlight with them. They rolled the stone across the opening, sealing me within it.

I have never felt so alone before, nor so afraid. It isn’t a child’s fear of the dark, but a very holy fear. It is morning, now, when I'm writing this, warm and bright, but part of me is still in that cold, dark tomb, and that part still trembles with fear. I am not alone there. There is an angel that stands vigil. He doesn’t take notice of me, though. To him, I am nothing more than a little mouse, not worth noticing. I’m glad of that. I feel like a trespasser in this holy place. If he did notice me, I fear he would draw a fiery sword and drive me from here like Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. I do want to leave there, but not like that! All I can do is wait, and tremble.

It was a day of great dryness, and spiritual aloneness. Easter Vigil Mass was a stark contrast to the Good Friday service. Then, while everyone was so somber, I had inwardly rejoiced. Tonight, while the entire world seemed to share in the risen Christ’s glory, I still seemed the trespassing mouse in the tomb. That tomb seems empty now. Like the soldiers outside, I must have spiritually slept through the Resurrection. That seems so fitting, so ironic!

Prayer has been so very difficult. Then only words I’ve been able to find have been those of offering, so that’s the kind of prayer period I had. Nothing I’ve read today has made much sense to me, except in Julian of Norwich: “All will be well.” I’ve latched on to that, and keep reminding myself that my Father knows what He’s doing.