A lament before the hope…

He's dead.

There is something about waiting. Something about the in between.

It feels hopeless, like Egypt is too far gone and the Promised Land too far away.

He's dead.

The darkness of night has come, and all hope seems lost.

"My soul refuses to be comforted." (Psalm 77:2).

The hopeful giddiness of the Triumphal Entry just six days earlier feels a distant memory. We hoped for the kingdom and got sacrifice. We poised for dwelling in the feast of booths and got the day of atonement.

The Hosanna cry has died away and been replaced with a heavy silence. If only to be distracted by work, but today is the Sabbath, forcing us to bear the silence.

He's dead.

Where are You Lord? How can this be Your plan?

Rome is exultant, and our Promise is still unfulfilled.
Rome is rejoicing, and our Lord is still in the tomb.
Rome is alive, and our Savior is still dead.

In these moments, the in between feels like it will never end. The darkness of the in between is here, and it's heavy, like the stone blocking the entrance - and exit - of the tomb. There's no way out. Hope is shut in. The darkness of a tomb.

Without air.
Without light.
Without hope.

The In Between. The darkness of the waiting.
The sadness of what has been and the fear for what will come next.
"My soul is in deep anguish." (Psalm 6:3).

The In Between is real, and it's hard to bear.
We wait in weary anticipation, with no way to know how our journey will end.
Will deliverance ever come?
Will the in between have the last word?

This is our wilderness experience - a time of deep reflection, sorrow, and surrender.

For those who live in the in between, you are seen.
For those who have seen trauma without resolution, you are known.
For those who face the darkness and despair of waiting, you are not forgotten.