As we move through Holy Week, I’ve been reflecting on how often our lives carry this same rhythm—
loss, waiting, and the quiet in-between places where we wonder what God is doing.
As we move through this week leading into Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday, I’ve been reflecting on how often our lives hold that same rhythm…
loss,
waiting,
and the quiet places in between
where we wonder what God is doing.
There was a season I didn’t think anything beautiful could grow from.
It was after everything in my life had shifted…
after loss had rewritten what I thought my story would be.
It didn’t feel dramatic.
It didn’t feel triumphant.
It felt quiet.
Heavy.
Uncertain.
I was still praying.
Still showing up.
But mostly, I was just surviving.
If you’ve walked through deep loss, you know that space.
There’s the public grief.
And then there’s the hidden grief.
The hidden part is where the real work happens.
Not the kind that looks strong.
Not the kind that feels victorious.
The kind where you sit before the Lord and whisper,
“I don’t know how this becomes anything good.”
And yet — something remained.
The love.
Deep loss does not erase deep love.
If anything, it reveals just how real it was.
And slowly — not overnight — I began to understand something I couldn’t see at first:
When we bring all of it to Him —
the ache, the anger, the questions, the memories —
the Giver of life does not waste it.
And that’s why this week matters.
Because the story didn’t end here.
He is the Resurrection and the Life.
Not just someday.
Even here.
Even now.
Not always by restoring what was.
But by forming something new within us.
My circumstances didn’t suddenly change.
But my roots deepened.
My faith steadied.
My prayers softened.
My trust became less dependent on outcomes.
I began to see beauty in places I never would have chosen —
In endurance.
In surrender.
In quiet obedience.
In the way hope can coexist with ache.
Not a loud kind of beauty.
A resurrected one.
And if you’re standing in ashes right now —
please hear this:
Just because it doesn’t look like blooming
doesn’t mean nothing is growing.
The ashes are not the end of your story.
Sometimes they are the soil.
The story doesn’t end in the ashes…
and it didn’t end at the cross either.
And in the hands of the One who conquered death,
even soil can become something beautiful.
No pressure.
No timeline.
Only a gentle offering — if and when it feels right.
This is the kind of space I wish I had in that season…
and if you need it too,, you’re not alone here.
If you’re looking for a quiet place to begin, I’ve created some free resources for you:
And if you feel ready for something deeper, you can find Beauty from the Ashes here:
And this is the truth we hold onto:
Jesus said,
“I am the resurrection and the life.” (John 11:25)
Not only at the end of the story.
Not only in eternity.
But in the places that feel lifeless now.