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resurrection eve

resurrection eve

To be completely honest, I woke up this morning with a whisper of words to share about this in-between day, this dark day, this day to lean into the hurting, hopeless, broken places. But as the day got going, I looked at Twitter. And Facebook. And instagram. On a day that’s sometimes called “Silent Saturday,” so many of us had so much to say. 

And I got overwhelmed. And in my overwhelm-ment, I was going to keep my thoughts for just me. Maybe no one reads this and it ends up just for me anyway, but I have a dear friend who’s reminding me lately to not excuse myself from writing, or working out, or keeping promises to myself (thank you, also, Rachel Hollis), so here we are. Putting a few more words out into a Silent Saturday, for myself at the very least, and just maybe for one other person. 

I love eves. The day before the thing. The waiting and the anticipation, the build-up and the good kind of anxious. I love all of the eves almost more than the actual holidays. 

Even this one.

This is the eve when it seemed that everything that had been promised was a tease. They’d waited and waited for Jesus to come, and then He was with them, and now He was dead. Broken. Bled out. Buried. 

That reality only invites the worst kind of anxious feelings. 

I’ve been listening for weeks to Andrew Peterson’s Resurrection Letters: Prologue album; and since yesterday, Volume I has been on endless repeat. These lyrics from the song “Always Good” have been hitting me in deep places and I can’t drop them. 

Do You remember how Mary was grieving?
How You wept and she fell at Your feet?
If it's true that You know what I'm feeling
Could it be that You're weeping with me?

Arise, O Lord, and save me
There's nowhere else to go

You're always good, always good
Somehow this sorrow is shaping my heart like it should
And You're always good, always good

Well it's so hard to know what You're doing
Why won't You tell it all plain?
But You said You'd come back on the third day
And Peter missed it again and again

So maybe the answer surrounds us
But we don't have eyes to see

That You're always good, always good
This heartache is moving me closer than joy ever could
And You're always good

My God, my God, be near me
There's nowhere else to go
And Lord, if You can hear me
Please help Your child to know

That You're always good, always good
As we try to believe what is not meant to be understood
Will You help us to trust Your intentions for us are still good
'Cause You laid down Your life
And You suffered like I never could

You're always good, always good
You're always good, always good

There is something, *for sure,* to be said for sitting in the unknown, holding onto the hurt, and embracing the ache. I don’t think pain should be rushed and I know that grief is a process and loss has to be felt. 

But I also know how it feels to need hope. I’ve felt the thirst and refreshment to believe that while this (whatever *this* is) sucks, I can trust there’s something good coming. I’ve been in that place of desperately asking God to rewind the tape and show me, remind me, spell out for me all the times and ways He was leading me up to this place. Because I believe He does that. I believe He wants us to know He doesn’t leave us—ever—so that when it feels like He’s gone, we know better than to believe it. 

If, today, your dark and unknown and ache is in need of some hope and a little light, I just wanted to say it’s okay to reach for it. The reality is that while the disciples didn’t know what Jesus was up to in those dark, dead hours, we know what He was doing—and He was wrecking shop. When our hope and trust and faith and even our broken moments all find their rest in the resurrection of Christ, we don’t have to live like we don’t know how this ends. 

We get to enjoy this Resurrection Eve and cling to the truth: we’re not waiting for morning—

We get to live in the light.  


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a short list of my greatest fears

a short list of my greatest fears