Saturday: The Silence That Feels Like Defeat
Today is the kind of quiet that hurts.
Not the peaceful kind—
The kind that feels like heaven went still.
Like hope took its last breath yesterday
and left us here,
In the hollow.
It’s Saturday.
The day after the cross,
but before the stone rolls.
The in-between.
And maybe you’ve lived here too –
in the long pause between pain and promise.
When the prayers feel unanswered.
When the grave looks like it’s won.
This is the kind of day where faith isn’t loud.
It’s not shouting hallelujah.
It’s whispering,
“Don’t let go now.”
Because what the enemy thought was the end
was only a seal God planned to break open.
They didn’t know Sunday was coming.
They didn’t know the silence of Saturday
was pregnant with resurrection.
And so I wait.
Not with answers,
but with expectation.
Because even when I can’t see the shift,
I trust the Savior who said,
“Three days.”
So I sit in the ache.
I cradle the question.
But I do not surrender the hope.
Because even in the dark,
He is still God.
