They were convinced He had come to change everything.
The crowds lined the streets, waving palm branches and shouting “Hosanna!”
They were sure—this was it.
The breakthrough.
The rescue.
The long-awaited answer. 

And then…
The cross. 

How quickly the celebration gave way to silence.
How fast their confidence was swallowed by confusion.
The One they thought would fix it all… was buried in a tomb.
What now?
Was it all a mistake?
Had they believed for nothing? 

Maybe you know that feeling.
When the miracle hasn’t come the way you imagined.
When the diagnosis remains.
When the circumstances are heavy.
When the prayer feels unanswered. 

I’ve lived there.
I’ve walked the road where hope flickers.
I’ve held my daughter in my arms—Marley, my beautiful girl with a rare genetic disorder—and begged for healing that hasn’t come the way I pictured.
And yet…
God met me there.
Not by removing the mountain, but by teaching me how to climb it with grace.
Not by fixing it all, but by flooding it with His presence. 

The resurrection didn’t erase suffering—it redefined it.
Because of that empty tomb? It means death doesn’t get the last word.
Not in your story.
Not in mine. 

He is still moving.
He is still faithful.
He is writing something eternal in the middle of what feels impossible. 

So if you’re standing in the middle of your own Good Friday…
If you feel stuck in Saturday silence…
Please don’t give up before Sunday. 

The miracle may not look like what you asked for.
But I promise you—it will be more.
More enduring.
More life-giving.
More powerful than anything you could have pictured. 

I know, because I’ve seen it.
I’m living it.
And I wouldn’t trade this kind of hope for anything. 

Wishing you a week soaked in holy expectation.
The stone was rolled away—and with it, every lie that says God has forgotten you.