In Between

It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour, for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Jesus called out with a loud voice, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit." When he had said this, he breathed his last. (Luke 23: 44-46)


I've been told before that you are supposed to write what you know.

Today is the day of limbo, and, well ... I know limbo.

Nothing is said of the day in between in the Gospels; it's a mystery. The disciples scattered shortly after they witnessed the horrific torture and murder of their teacher. They didn't know what was coming next, but on that in-between day they started to regroup, started to see if they could come up with a plan. They were wanted men in a world forever altered. Their movement was limited. They had no idea what to expect of the days to come -- or if there was any reason to hope.

They were lost.

It was the Sabbath; Jesus had been buried before sundown the day before.

This is my favorite part of Easter weekend and a lot of that is simply familiarity. I know what it is to be hanging between two worlds, the only certainty being that you needed to be out of where you were before.

Saturday is the darkest hour, the open road in a storm, the teasing light on the horizon.


On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb... (Luke 24:1)

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