Not Home. Come Home.

The Cross has spoken.
The tomb is still closed.
The dream has been buried.
The world holds its breath.

Holy Saturday is the ache of in-between.
Not the agony of death, not yet the joy of rising — just silence.
Waiting.
Uncertainty.

This is the day that feels familiar to many:
To those in the grip of trauma,
To those who have lost too much, too soon,
To those displaced, discarded, or told their lives don’t matter.

This day is for the in-between — where so many live, where dreams are distant or have died.

It is the empty room in the group home, the 2 a.m. panic in the psych ward, the locked door of the prison cell, the hunger pang that doesn’t relent.

It is the friend who stopped texting, the dad who never came back, the child who won’t be held again.

It is the silence after a diagnosis. The quiet of loss. The numbness of trauma. The questions God doesn’t answer right away.

It is the day after the beams have splintered, and no one knows what to build next.

It is the space between Not Home and the hope of Come Home.

And yet even here, God is not absent.
Even in silence, God is near.

He is with the grieving.
With those who are too tired to hope, too wounded to try again.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is wait — to hold space for sorrow.
To honor the silence without rushing it.
To sit beside the broken without fixing them.
To become a soft landing when everything else has been hard.

Because resurrection doesn’t come through noise.
It begins in stillness.

And that stillness is not empty — it is full of what’s coming next.