They didn’t wake up expecting a miracle. They woke up still heartbroken. Still confused. Still trying to make sense of the nightmare they feared might never end. For them, Sunday started as just another day after death. But Heaven had other plans.

Saturday is the day your faith doesn’t feel like enough. It’s the day between promise and payoff. The day when hope feels stupid. The day when God seems quiet, distant, or worse—absent. It’s the day you sit in the gap, unsure whether to move on or hold on. Sometimes it’s a day. Sometimes, it’s a lifetime. And yet, Saturdays matter. Maybe more than we realize.

Nobody slept much the night before. Jesus had been arrested. He wasn’t coming back. He was taken to the High Priest’s home, charged with crimes he did not commit. He was tortured by the Romans while his own people watched. He spent Thursday night as a prisoner, and...

If Wednesday was silent, Thursday was sacred. Intentional. Intimate. It’s Jesus with His closest friends, breaking bread in a borrowed room, knowing full well that betrayal is already in motion, the cross is closer than ever, and time is running out.

Wednesday was eerily quiet. The calm before the storm. The the Gospels go mostly silent about this day. Nothing flashy. No public teaching. No dramatic miracles. Just… quiet. But don’t mistake the silence for peace. Beneath the stillness, a dark plot is unfolding.