When everything is packed up...
And furniture is gone...
When days begin and end with suitcases...
When it's time to pull out of familiarity for the last time...
And when friends say last goodbyes...
When hours and miles pass on the road...
When there's one more stop...
And one more town along the way...
When everyone and everything is in transit...
And hotels become home for the night...
And RV's and grandparents' houses become landing spots for a couple of weeks...
When home is defined in temporary terms...
It's the in barren spot between what we have always had and what we hope will be... It's in the in-between times, the waiting times, the uprooted times when we can lose our bearings.
It's where faith absolutely must be our sight. It's where we have to choose to hold onto the promise of what is coming, even when it is not in view.
It's the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday...the waiting time. Yesterday, I couldn't help but to wonder what I would have been doing on that Saturday 2000+ years ago. Friday spelled death, and Sunday had not yet arrived. Saturday was the in-between time...the time when faith was tested. There was not a shred of life or hope on Saturday. All the human eye could see was darkness and death and pain. And yet Jesus had made a promise. Do we hang onto His promises, even in the long waits when there is no sign of that promise being fulfilled? What is it that we do with our in-between times?
