Years ago, after my closest Indonesian friend died, I pondered the disciples and how they must have felt from Friday to Sunday morning after Jesus died. And I put those thoughts in my journal.

Shock and Disbelief. 
Did it really happen? How—to Jesus especially? How could the Messiah die?

Anger. 
At the injustice of his trial. At Judas for betraying him. At themselves for doing nothing. At God for letting it happen. 

Disappointment. 
That Jesus didn’t overthrow the Romans, or lead a revolution, or fulfill their plans. That he didn’t use his power to save himself. 

Guilt. 
For not defending Jesus, for running away, hiding, denying him, deserting him.

Grief and sadness. 
At watching him suffer. At losing a friend and teacher. At the death of their dream. At the (apparent) victory of the enemy. 

Helplessness. 
Because they couldn’t halt the trial, influence the crowd, save him from death, stop the pain, or usher in the kingdom. 

Fear. 
That the soldiers would come for them next. So they hid. Afraid to be bold, speak up, come out of hiding, or even stay put.

Shame. 
That they had followed a vain hope, that they should’ve known better.

Moral Injury. 
Because they watched and could not stop the cruel, unjust death of an innocent man.

All they could do was wrap his body in cloth and prepare it for burial, lovingly bathe it in spices. Put it in a tomb and wait. Behind locked doors. 

Sunday was coming. They could not know. They could not believe. 

Did they just sit in stunned silence? Did they weep? Quietly or in anger? 

Did anyone remember? Remember Jesus's words, his promises?

Thank you, Lord, for showing me what the disciples soon learned: There is more to the story. It isn’t over. You are indeed risen.

Luke 24:5-6, 8: Matthew 28:5-6

A version of this as a liturgy—a written prayer—will appear in my upcoming book, In Every Moment: Recounting God’s Goodness in Overseas Life.