Where is Love Now?
When grief feels loud within us, and the world carries on.
Yesterday, we stood at the cross and asked: What kind of love is this?
A love that does not pull away. A love that stays. A love that suffers. But today – it feels as though that love has gone quiet. Today is the day we often pass over too quickly. Not as heavy as Friday. Not as bright as Sunday. Just…this. The in-between.
And strangely, for many, it would have felt like an ordinary day. People waking up. Preparing meals. Continuing routines. Some observing what had to be observed. Some carrying on almost…automatically.
Have you ever felt that?
That quiet, disorienting gap where something significant has just happened – something heavy, something personal – and yet everything around you keeps moving as though nothing has changed?
Cars still pass. Shops still open. People still laugh.
And you find yourself wondering, even if only for a moment – why doesn’t it stop?
Because part of us wants it to. Wants the world to pause long enough to acknowledge the weight of what we’re carrying. To recognise the grief. To notice the pain. To say, somehow, this matters.
I’ve felt that.
Moments where something has shifted – not loudly, not publicly – but deeply. And all you want, even if you don’t say it out loud, is for everything else to pause. For the noise to quieten. For the world to notice. But it doesn’t. It carries on.
Grief is strange like that – the world keeps moving, and you’re left trying to catch up.
I wonder if the disciples felt something like that. Confused. Scattered. Trying to make sense of what had just unfolded. And outside – out there in the world – life continued. He had spoken of life. Of kingdom. Of something coming. And now?
Silence.
There’s a way of looking back on moments like this and making sense of them. Seeing how things might have been leading somewhere. But when you’re actually in it – it doesn’t feel like that.
For the people closest to him, this didn’t feel like part of a bigger story. It felt like something had ended. Not paused. Ended. It was an ending they could not yet understand.
Maybe that’s why this day matters more than we notice. Because most of life doesn’t feel like Friday or Sunday. It feels like this. The prayer that lingers without response. The situation that doesn’t resolve. The quiet sense that something once felt clear has become…distant. Not gone, necessarily. Just…quiet.
And if Friday asks us what kind of love is this? Saturday asks something harder: where is love now?
It’s not a question we like to sit with. We would rather move quickly – towards clarity, towards resolution, towards Sunday. But Holy Saturday, sad Saturday, silent Saturday resists that. It does not rush. It does not explain. It simply stays.
Because even here – when love feels distant, when God feels silent, when the world carries on as normal – we are left holding the question.
Where is love now?
And maybe that is the invitation of this day.
Not to force meaning too soon. Not to tidy the tension. But to remain. To notice what this kind of silence does within us. What it reveals. What it unsettles. What it gently invites us to trust.
Because love has not gone anywhere. It has not withdrawn. It has not failed. It is simply working in ways we cannot yet see. The roots of resurrection are working in the dark. And so we wait. Not with easy confidence. Not with neat answers. But with a quieter, more fragile trust – that the love we saw yesterday has not disappeared today. Even if it feels like it has.
Tomorrow will say more. But not yet.
Today we stay here.
Josh | A Curious Follower