Have you ever noticed, in the jam-packed lineup of the Holy Week calendar, that there’s no special name for Saturday? We have Palm Sunday in all its hosanna-ed fanfare, Maundy Thursday with its perfume-pouring and betrayal, Good Friday with its heart-rending crucifixion, and of course Easter Sunday in all its glory.

But tucked in between the tragedy and the triumph is that lonely Saturday. A day of silence.

According to the Jewish calendar, it would have been a day of rest. But I can hardly believe it was anything close to restful for Jesus’ followers. Their whole world had been shattered. The One they thought would save them and set them free was in a grave, silent. And God seemed silent too.

What do you do when everything you’ve staked your life on implodes in the span of an afternoon?
How do you keep going when it seems like your hopes have all gone up in flames?
How do you put one foot in front of the other between Friday and Sunday?

***

Almost exactly one year ago, I found myself in a season of Good Fridays. Daniel and I had gotten a scary 20-week ultrasound, and the remainder of the pregnancy loomed before us like a never-ending waiting room. Would our baby be okay? Would I have the fortitude to make it through the next trimester and a half? Spring was emerging all around me, but there was no room in my soul for bonnets and white lilies.

Then on Saturday of holy week, when I was lying in bed, I felt it for the first time—our baby’s kick.

The timing seemed providential somehow. Daniel and I were stuck between the bad news of our own Good Friday and the miracle we believed was coming (whether that miracle was the variety we were hoping for or not). We believed God was going to do something good, but in that silent period of waiting, it was hard to see what Sunday would look like.

Perhaps that’s why that moment felt so sacred. As those tiny feet fluttered just under my ribs, it seemed like a glimpse of resurrection. Our vigil wasn’t over; it wasn’t Easter yet. But in that divine belly-whisper, God was promising that he hadn’t forgotten us, that he hadn’t abandoned us. Even in the waiting. Even in the silence.

That first kick felt like a rogue arrow of hope, coming as it did on that Waiting Saturday. It was a promise of new life, a glimmer of hope that Sunday would come.

Because you know what? Sunday always comes. As dark as your Friday may be, as silent as your Saturday may be, God is at work, preparing a Sunday beyond your wildest imagining.

I don’t know what Saturday you are in right now. Maybe resurrection seems unbearably far away. Maybe it seems like it won’t come at all.

But God is at work, even in the apparent silence.

Father in heaven . . . even when you are silent, you still speak to us, in order to examine us, to try us, and so that the hour of our understanding may be more profound. Oh, in the time of silence, when I remain alone and abandoned because I do not hear your voice, it seems as if the separation must last forever. Father in heaven! It is only a moment of silence in the intimacy of a conversation. Bless then this silence, and let me not forget that you are silent through love, and that you speak through love, so that in your silence and in your word you are still the same Father, and that you guide and instruct even by your silence.
Soren Kierkegaard

If you find yourself stuck in a seemingly never-ending Saturday, take courage and remember: Sunday comes. Sunday always comes.

A few weeks ago I got up early and watched the lunar eclipse, the bright ball of a moon glowing orange in the inky sky. As I stood outside in the predawn, I got to thinking about the night sky . . . a topic I can’t say I’ve pondered much before (then again, I’m not usually pondering much of anything at o-dark-thirty).

The thing about the moon is that it doesn’t have much to commend it on its own. By itself, the moon is little more than a craggy mass of rock. It’s only when the sun reflects off its surface that it is able to light up the night sky. Without the sun, we’d never see the moon at all—not its fingernail-clipping crescent or its full-orbed harvest glow.

And then there are the stars, which march out one by one to the same spot every night. They twinkle from their designated places, glowing modestly from the formations they’ve stood in for generations. Their beauty comes not so much from being the flashiest or the brightest but from where they shine in the dark sky.

When I think about this media-saturated culture we live in, sometimes I wonder if we all feel undue pressure to Dream Big and to Do Significant Things and to Refuse to Settle for Ordinary. And while yes, it’s important to chase after the visions God has planted inside of us, sometimes I think we can get hung up on flashiness instead of obedience.

What if sometimes God wants us to just shine where we are?

If one day the moon decided it no longer wanted to remain in the line of the sun, we wouldn’t benefit from its nightly glow. If a star in the Big Dipper decided it wanted more of the limelight and stepped out of formation, we’d be deprived of its unique display of light.

So maybe there’s a lesson for us in the night sky. We aren’t called to be the brightest or the best—we’re just called to show up in the ordinary moments and reflect the Light.

• Maybe you’re called to shine as you do another load of laundry.
• Maybe you’re called to shine in that same old job, day after day.
• Maybe you’re called to shine as you listen, really listen, to the cashier at the grocery store.
• Maybe you’re called to shine as you serve someone who doesn’t seem to appreciate you, to love someone who doesn’t seem to love you back.

Today, I urge to reflect his light—right where you are. Show up and shine—right where you are.

He determines the number of the stars     and calls them each by name.
Psalm 147:4