This day between Good Friday and the Sunday of all Sundays settles into a silence of sorts. It’s the space where most of us live, most of the time.
Nothing much happening around or in us, or so it seems.
Caught between the death of some one or some thing and our hopes and dreams of a better tomorrow, a better us or them.
This is the time to believe what cannot be seen or felt.
Before the robin sings or forsythia blooms, before the prodigal returns, or healing happens, before word spreads of an empty tomb, to believe God’s at work in the silence. To believe God’s at work in the dark, when life makes a u-turn and all hell breaks loose to make you feel the fool for ever believing Love had a fighting chance.
God, of Sacred Saturdays and Silences, grant us that speck of faith to sense what cannot be seen, to wait patiently in the dark, to dare to expect a Sunday of Sundays once more.
For Christ’s sake,
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