Maybe you're living in Saturday. Maybe you just watched the darkest Friday of your life unfold.

Maybe you awoke Saturday morning to find that the horrors of Friday were no nightmare but were, in fact, your new reality.

Maybe after the tears have been poured out and the pain has been named in screams, you sit in the shattering, the pieces of what you thought were true all around you.

Maybe it's Saturday.

Maybe you have no idea that there's the hope of a Sunday. And if someone threw that phrase to you, it would be such an insult to your grief that you'd throw it back at their head if you weren't wrung out, wrung dry, wrung completely empty.

There is no escaping the middle ground that is Saturday. You cannot rush the sunrise that will lead to a Sunday. You cannot hurry up the unfolding of the day. You cannot fix anything, change anything, undo anything that occurred on Friday.

Maybe on Saturday, all you can do is Still. Be. Here. And that is enough. For Saturday, it is all you need to do.

Maybe your Friday has already happened; perhaps the trauma or the betrayal or the loss or the diagnosis means you have awakened Saturday morning into a new and alien landscape where the ground seems unstable and the sky seems upside down. You cannot begin to hope for the pink rays that will come from the Eastern sky until you have wept and grieved and been still and fought through each moment of today.  Don't let anyone take away the hours of your Saturday. There is no Sunday without today.

If it's your Saturday, you are not alone today. There are other Saturday dwellers around you. Sit. Wait. And when the inkiest hours are enveloping you in their shadows, that, too, cannot be skipped, cannot be ignored. Reach out; find a hand to hold as you feel your way through the night. And when the night hours squeeze your heart tightly with fear and the unknown, then and only then can you turn your eyes to the East. And watch for your healing to come.