Today is the in-between.

Good Friday has passed—the sky has darkened, the curtain torn, and the world has exhaled a gasp of grief. The cross still casts its shadow over the earth, and the tomb is sealed tight.

And yet, resurrection has not yet dawned.

This is Holy Saturday.
The day of waiting.
The day of not knowing.
The day of silence.

Scripture is quiet about this day. The Gospels, which paint with vivid color the pain of Friday and the victory of Sunday, go nearly still when it comes to Saturday. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe Holy Saturday was never meant to be explained—but felt.

It is the space between sorrow and joy, between the breaking and the mending, between “It is finished” and “He is risen.”

And in that space… is where we live more often than we like to admit.

Because for so many of us, life feels like Holy Saturday.

We know the promise, but we haven’t yet seen the fulfillment.
We’ve buried our hope, but haven’t yet heard it call our name.
We trust that God is good, but the grave still looks like it won.

We live in the tension of what was and what will be.
And today, God does not rush us out of it.

He lets us linger here.
In the hush.
In the waiting.
In the ache.

And maybe that’s a holy thing too.

Because here—where all seems lost and nothing seems certain—faith breathes its truest breath.
Here is where we say: “I still believe.”
Here is where we whisper: “Even now, You are near.”
Here is where hope is no longer a feeling but a fierce decision.

And make no mistake—He is still working.

Even when it looks like nothing is happening.
Even when the tomb is closed and the silence is thick.
Even when the sky feels empty and our prayers feel unanswered.

Jesus descended into the depths—not just to fulfill prophecy, but to make sure no place is beyond His reach. Not even death. Not even despair. Not even the long, quiet waiting of Holy Saturday.

So today, we wait.

But not as those without hope.

We wait with tear-streaked cheeks and hearts that refuse to stop hoping.
We wait with the trust that Sunday is coming.
We wait, not because we are forgotten—but because God is not finished.

And oh, friend—when He moves the stone… it will all make sense.

Until then, we wait. Together.
In silence.
In trust.
In hope.