I Want a Saturday Kind of Faith

No one tells you how to live in the space between crucifixion and resurrection.
It’s the time no one talks about—the span of ache and absence that shapes everything.

Where the dream is dead,
but the grief is alive.

Where nothing makes sense,
and everything hurts.

No thunder.
No angels.
Just quiet.

And you start to wonder:
Was any of it real?
Was I a fool for hoping?

---

Can you imagine the disciples?
They gave up everything—
careers, reputations, safety—
to follow this wild-eyed teacher
who saw them like no one else ever had.

He believed in them.
Called them.
Knew who they could be before they believed it themselves.

And then—
just like that—
He was gone.

Publicly humiliated.
Brutally executed.
Left to die in the most shameful way imaginable.

And all that remained was silence.

---

That’s the space they lived in—
the unbearable quiet
between what they lost
and what they didn’t yet dare to hope for.

And for many of us, that silence feels familiar.
We may not live there—but sometimes we land there.

Because sometimes resurrection doesn’t come in three days.
Sometimes it doesn’t come how we prayed.
Sometimes it doesn’t come in a way we even recognize.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not coming.

And maybe—just maybe—
that space in between
is the place where faith is born.

Not the shiny kind.
Not the Sunday kind.

The durable kind.
The kind that holds when nothing else does.

It’s a Saturday kind of faith.
The kind that waits.
The kind that aches.
The kind that whispers,
Even now… I’m not done yet.


💬 If this met you where you are...

Just hit reply.
Or forward it to someone else who’s still waiting in their own Saturday.
We weren’t meant to walk this path alone.