Saturday of Holy Week: Held in the Hollow

Unfinished quilts, the quiet hearts, and the sacred pause before the light.

Psalm 139:7–12
“Even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day.”

Holy Saturday has always felt like the hardest part. You know what’s just happened. You don’t yet know what’s coming. You just…wait.

Waiting, for me, looks different on different days. Sometimes it’s a sacred stillness: letting myself rest, breathe, and trust that something—Spirit, healing, clarity—will eventually rise. Other times it’s more active. I don’t know what’s coming, but I want to be ready. So I clean the studio. I prep a quilt. I lay out pieces even if I’m not quite ready to sew. It’s not rushing. It’s preparing. Like a seedling waiting to burst through the soil. Or like stitching the final binding on a quilt—you’re so close, but you can’t force it. You stay steady until the end. Then? You wrap yourself in the warmth of what you’ve made and say, it was worth it.

I think back to my ordination process. I had done everything I was supposed to do, but still, it felt like nothing was moving. Like I was stuck in limbo. Looking back, though? That waiting wasn’t empty. It was forming me. The in-between was shaping me into the kind of pastor I needed to be. The waiting changed me. Was it fun? Hell no. But it was holy.

I’ve learned to trust the hidden layers. In quilting, the backing fabric is rarely seen, but it’s what holds everything together. Sometimes I choose a backing that complements the top—same colors, same theme. But sometimes, I pick something wildly different. Something unexpected. Because what’s unseen doesn’t have to be quiet. It can still surprise. It can still matter.

My studio is full of unfinished projects. Cut pieces. Half-assembled blocks. Patterns waiting for their fabric. And still—they call to me. Not all at once. But slowly. Quietly. When the time is right.

That’s what Holy Saturday feels like: a room full of half-finished things, and a God who whispers, It’s okay to rest. The work is still happening.

Psalm 139 says even the darkness is not dark to God. That’s hard to believe when the depression creeps in, when you feel alone, when the ache presses in and the silence feels heavy. But I’ve started to recognize God’s presence in small things: a text from a friend, a warm meal, an unexpected laugh. In those moments, I realize I’ve been held all along. Even in the dark. Even in the hollow.

And when I can’t fix anything—when I don’t have the energy to finish a quilt, or write a sermon, or keep it all together—I’ve learned to just be. Maybe I don’t stitch the whole row. But I can prep one block. Maybe I don’t know what’s next. But I can get ready anyway.

Because even in the waiting—
even in the hollow—
something holy is still happening.

A Benediction for the In-Between

May the God who waits with you
bless your unfinished edges.
May she hold you gently in the hollow,
where nothing is certain but her love.

May you know that rest is holy.
That silence is not absence.
That being still is not being stuck.

And when you cannot see what’s unfolding—
when the thread feels loose,
the fabric uncut,
the pattern unclear—
may you trust that something sacred
is already taking shape.

You are not behind.
You are not alone.
You are being held.

Amen.