Thoughts, Prayers & Art

Originally published: April 19, 2025

This is the day between.
Between nailed fists and risen hands.
Between breath stolen and breath restored.
Between empire’s cold triumph
and love’s defiant return.

We live here—
in the ache between crucifixion
and resurrection.

We walk among the tombs.
We carry the spices of mourning.
We kneel beside graves with no names.
And we whisper to God,
“How long?”

This is Holy Saturday.

Where Black mothers still bury their sons
under the weight of state-approved crosses.
Where the undocumented
disappear into chains and courtrooms,
while the powerful toast their victories.
Where queer children are told
they are too much,
too wrong,
too alive.
Where children in Gaza bleed,
and the world looks away.
Where the earth groans
under the weight of bombs and greed.

It is finished—
but nothing feels finished.

So we sit in the silence.
We weep in the waiting.
We rage in the shadow of the tomb.

And yet—
even here,
even now,
a holy rumbling stirs the earth.

For in this in-between,
God is not idle.

Heaven descends into hell’s grip
and begins the undoing.

Love refuses to rot.
Justice is not buried for good.
The stone is not as heavy as it seems.

Empire may gloat
but empire does not get the last word.

Because even in the dark,
the body of Christ cannot be held forever.

Even in the silence,
God is still moving.

And when Love rises
not if, but when
it will not return tame.

It will break every chain.
It will shatter every throne built on cruelty.
It will call the names of the forgotten
and raise them into light.

And if you listen closely—
not to the pundits,
but to the wind through the olive trees
you might hear it:

the stone
beginning
to move.

So keep watch.
Even now.
Especially now.

This is the day between.
And resurrection
is already on its way.