The Waiting

Samuel was seven years old, and he had never seen a city so quiet. It was a Saturday — the Sabbath — and Jerusalem should have been bustling with merchants and travelers and the sounds of people going about their work. But today, the streets were almost empty. The market stalls were closed. Even the temple seemed hushed, like someone had whispered to the whole city, "Shhh. Be still." Samuel sat at the table in his father's workshop, watching his father do nothing. That was the strangest part. His father was a carpenter. His father always had something in his hands — a chisel, a piece of wood, a hammer. But today, his father just sat there, his hands open on the table, staring at the wall. Samuel had never seen his father look so tired. Not the kind of tired from working too long. The kind of tired that lives all the way inside. "Papa?" Samuel said softly. "Are you sleeping?" "No, little one." His father's voice was quiet. "I'm waiting." "Waiting for what?" His father didn't answer for a long time. Then he said, "Do you remember the man we followed to the temple? The one who told stories and healed people?" Samuel nodded. He remembered. He had sat on his father's shoulders so he could see. The man's voice was gentle, and when he talked about God, it sounded like he knew God personally — like God was his father too. "He said something strange," his father continued. "He said he would die, and then on the third day, he would rise again." "What's 'rise' mean?" Samuel asked. "Live again," his father said. "Come back to life." Samuel thought about this. "But he died on Friday," he said. "With the heavy stone in front of his tomb. He's not going to come back." His father looked at him with red eyes. "No," he said. "I don't think he is either." They sat in the quiet for a while. Outside, a bird sang. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It was beautiful, but Samuel didn't feel like looking at it. "Papa," he said, "are you angry at God?" His father was quiet. Then he said, "I don't know what I am. I thought I understood what God was doing. I thought this man was the one who would fix everything — the Romans, the temple, all of it. I thought he was the answer." His voice cracked. "And now he's in a tomb with a stone rolled in front of it, and I don't know anything." Samuel didn't know what to say. So he did the only thing that felt right. He crawled up onto his father's lap and put his head on his shoulder. His father wrapped his arms around him, and they sat like that — two people holding onto each other in the quiet of a city that didn't understand why it was grieving. "Father," Samuel whispered. "Hmm?" "I think you should keep waiting." His father laughed — just a tiny bit, barely a sound. "You do?" "Yeah. Because you always tell me — when you don't understand something, trust the One who does. Even when it doesn't make sense. Even when it hurts." Samuel paused. "You always say that." His father held him tighter. "You're right," he said, almost to himself. "I'm not sure I believe it today. But... maybe waiting is what you're supposed to do when you don't believe anything. Maybe waiting is how you find out." Samuel didn't fully understand. But he knew the feeling of his father's arms around him, warm and steady. And he knew that some things you just have to wait for — like sunrise, like your mother coming home, like answers that don't come right away. Outside, the moon rose over Jerusalem. A great stone sealed the tomb of a man who said he would rise. The city held its breath. And Samuel's father kept waiting — not because he was sure, but because the waiting was the only thing he had left. He had promised us, his father thought, as the candle burned low. He promised. Somewhere in the dark, an ember glowed. Not bright. Not yet. But still glowing. And the waiting went on.