It’s Good Friday, but nothing about today feels particularly good.

The sky didn’t dim at noon. No veil was torn. No thunder rolled through the streets—just the usual buzz of emails, a cup of tea gone cold on the table, and a silence that feels more hollow than sacred.


The kind of silence that fills the space between thoughts,
not with awe, but with sorrow. I used to think this day meant something.
That it carried weight—not just in the story, but in my bones.
A reverence. A stillness. Something sacred in the waiting.

But today, it just feels… ordinary. A little heavy. A little off.

They call it Good Friday. A strange name for the day a man was crucified. Maybe it’s good because we know what comes after.
Because we see the story through the lens of resurrection.
But what if you’re stuck in the middle? What if Sunday feels a million miles away—and all you have is Friday’s silence and Saturday’s uncertainty?

That’s where I’m sitting today. In the in-between. The space between grief and glory. Between mourning and meaning.Between “It is finished” and “He is risen.”

And as I sit here, I can’t help remembering my favorite Easter—
the one where we woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains
at my grandparents’ house in North Carolina. The air was thick with the scent of blooming dogwoods and warm earth. After months of Rhode Island’s icy grip, it felt like we had escaped something.
Like we had made it. That Easter felt like resurrection.

As we dressed for church, there was laughter in the kitchen.
Ham in the oven. The kind of joy that doesn’t ask for permission.

But that memory only glows the way it does because of what came before it— the frost, the cold mornings scraping ice off windshields,
and living in a place where the people were as unfriendly as the weather.

Maybe that’s where most of us live—between the death of what we hoped for and the resurrection we haven’t yet seen. Maybe that’s why Good Friday doesn’t feel good. Not because it isn’t—but because it asks us to sit in the pain. To not rush past the cross.
To not skip to the good part. To believe, somehow,
that suffering is part of the sacred.

And that even silence has something to say.