There is holiness in the waiting days.
Now, here, we sit back, holding the book full of spoilers, sure that know the way the story will end. But Good Friday means we loosen our grasp on the certainty of the thing we’re promised, and we live in the terrifying space between exhale and inhale.
There is holiness in the waiting and the mourning and the longing.
There is holiness in the darkness, in the long hours before the night is broken by the sound of a newborn baby’s wail, the rumble of a stone rolling away.
We build it into our calendar, the waiting time: the longing of Advent, the grief of Holy Saturday. Immersing ourselves in the fear and the loss and the promise we don’t quite understand.
The empty manger. The sealed tomb. The silence.
God is in the grief, the days of not-yet-new, the ache and dread. God is in the ticking-clock panic of the space after we exhale, waiting to breathe in life, hope, redemption.