19/04/2025
There’s a day in Holy Week that often gets overlooked.
It’s the day in between. Black Saturday.
It’s the quiet, heavy pause. The space where everything felt lost and nothing made sense. The tomb was closed. The silence was loud. Hope hadn’t yet broken through.
It’s the silence between death and resurrection. The day after the cross but before the empty tomb. It’s the ache of promises not yet fulfilled, the confusion of unanswered prayers, the weight of waiting.
And honestly… it feels a lot like life sometimes.
For us, as a family, Black Saturday isn’t just a part of the Easter story—it’s the reality we live with. We know Jesus has defeated death. We believe in resurrection. But there’s still a gap between what we know to be true and what we long to see fulfilled.
We miss Clementine every single day. And even with all the joy of holding baby Sage—who is talkative, full of smiles, and such a gift—we still carry that ache. There’s no replacing. No fixing. Only waiting.
Waiting for Jesus to return.
Waiting to be reunited.
Waiting for every wrong to be made right.
This is our personal Black Saturday, the quiet space between grief and glory. It’s filled with questions we may never get answers to. But it’s also filled with a strange, defiant hope. Because we know Sunday is coming.
We live with the ache of loss, and the tension of promise. And yet we wait—not without pain, but not without faith. We wait because we believe Jesus will come again. That every tear will be wiped away. That death will lose its sting. That what we lost will be restored.
Until then, we carry this holy ache. We hold both sorrow and hope in the same breath. And we cling to the One who meets us in the middle of it all.
So if you find yourself in a Black Saturday of your own—between the diagnosis and the healing, between the loss and the redemption, between the longing and the fulfillment—know this: You’re not alone.
He is with you in the waiting.
And Sunday is coming
