Today is Holy Saturday—the day between heartbreak and hope. The sanctuary stands quiet. The week has been long. Holy Week always carries its own weight, but this year, it feels heavier. Maybe it’s the rain tapping gently on the windows, or maybe it’s the fire that startled our rhythm and left its mark—small but unsettling. Smoke lingers longer than flames, and so does disruption.

We’re grateful the damage was minimal. The building still stands. The cross is still there. But the unexpected has a way of rattling even the strongest faith. This week we’ve walked through the betrayal, the cross, the silence—and we’ve carried more than just the usual Holy Week weariness. We’ve carried the stress of plans interrupted, the ache of uncertainty, the fatigue that comes from trying to hold it all together.

And now we wait.

Holy Saturday is not a day of action. It’s not loud. It doesn’t clamor for our attention. It simply invites us to sit with the sorrow of Friday and the promise of Sunday. It is the space in-between, the breath held tight before the sigh of resurrection.

The rain outside feels fitting. It slows us down. It quiets the soul. And maybe that’s what we need—to be still for just a moment, to remember that even in the ashes, God is preparing something new. The tomb may be sealed, but the stone soon will be moved. We may feel stuck in the silence, but resurrection is already stirring beneath the surface.

So today, let the rain fall. Let the silence speak. Let the ashes remind you that God is never finished—not with churches, not with people, not with you.

Sunday is coming. And with it, the hope that rises—not just from the ground, but from the very heart of God.