Pieces of the Puzzle

When the Ending Isn’t the End

We all know what it feels like when something ends.

A relationship ends.
A job ends.
A season of life ends.
Sometimes, a life ends.

And when those moments come, they can feel absolute. Final. Like the road has simply… stopped.

There are times when there is no clear next step — only grief, silence, and the quiet realization that something cannot be put back the way it was. In those moments, it’s easy to tell ourselves a simple story:

This is how it ends.
This is where it stops.
There is nowhere else to go from here.

That’s exactly the kind of moment the Easter story begins in.

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Showing Up When the Story Feels Over

(Matthew 28:1–10)

In the Gospel of Matthew, a group of women go to Jesus’ tomb early in the morning (Matthew 28:1). They are not expecting a miracle. They are not anticipating resurrection. They are simply showing up to grieve.

They bring spices. They bring love. They bring the quiet faithfulness of people who don’t know what else to do — so they show up anyway.

They expect a sealed tomb.
A still body.
An ending.

But instead, they hear words that disrupt everything:

“He is not here; for he has been raised” (Matthew 28:6).

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The Power of Interrupted Expectations

(Matthew 28:5–7)

The Easter story doesn’t begin with belief — it begins with interruption.

The women come expecting death, and instead they are met with something entirely different. Their assumptions are overturned. Their expectations don’t just shift — they collapse.

The angel tells them:

• “Do not be afraid” (v. 5)
• “He is not here” (v. 6)
• “Come and see” (v. 6)
• “Go quickly and tell his disciples” (v. 7)

And then this surprising promise:

“He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him” (Matthew 28:7).

How often do we look for hope in places that can’t hold it?
How often do we expect life to come from what has already ended?

We tend to look for God where we last experienced certainty. But Easter suggests something deeper:

New life rarely shows up where we expect it.

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When Endings Become Beginnings

(Psalm 118:22–24)

If the cross were the end of the story, then the answer to life’s hardest question —“Is this it?”— would sometimes be yes.

But Easter offers a different word.

The psalmist writes:

“The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone.
This is the Lord’s doing…
This is the day that the Lord has made” (Psalm 118:22–24).

What looked like rejection becomes foundation.
What looked like an ending becomes a beginning.

This doesn’t erase grief or minimize loss. The tomb was real. The sorrow was real.

But Easter insists that those places are not the final word.

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We Are Still on the Way

(Matthew 28:16–20)

One of the most surprising parts of the resurrection story is this: it doesn’t resolve everything.

When the disciples meet the risen Jesus, Scripture says:

“When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted” (Matthew 28:17).

Even here — even now — faith is still unfolding.

And then Jesus gives them a familiar word:

“Go therefore and make disciples of all nations…” (Matthew 28:19)

Not “stay.”
Not “you’ve arrived.”
But “go.”

The resurrection is not a finish line. It’s a sending.

And it comes with a promise:

“I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

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Where Do We Find Hope Now?

(Matthew 28:7; 25:35–40)

If the message of Easter is that life continues beyond the worst moments, then the natural question becomes:

Where do we look for it?

The angel says, “He is going ahead of you” (Matthew 28:7).

Which means we encounter the risen Christ not only in sacred spaces, but out in the world — in what comes next.

Jesus once taught:

“Just as you did it to one of the least of these… you did it to me” (Matthew 25:40).

So hope shows up:

• In acts of mercy
• In quiet courage
• In forgiveness that felt impossible
• In the presence of someone who refuses to leave

Sometimes, the clearest glimpse of new life comes through other people.

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The Next Chapter

(Isaiah 43:18–19; Philippians 3:13–14)

Easter doesn’t just tell a story — it asks a question:

What comes next?

The prophet Isaiah writes:

“Do not remember the former things… I am about to do a new thing” (Isaiah 43:18–19).

And Paul echoes this movement forward:

“Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on…” (Philippians 3:13–14).

The next chapter may not be the one that was planned.
But it is the one unfolding now.

For some, it begins with healing.
For others, with trust.
For others, simply with showing up again.

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Not Alone on the Journey

(Matthew 28:20; Acts 2:42–47)

One of the quiet threads running through the Easter story is this: no one walks it alone.

The women go together.
The disciples gather together.
And the early church becomes a community that shares life, faith, and resources (Acts 2:42–47).

Whatever “next” looks like, it isn’t meant to be carried in isolation.

And the promise at the heart of it all remains:

“I am with you always” (Matthew 28:20).

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There Is More to the Story

So if the question is:

Are we there yet?

Easter’s answer is:

No.

But that “no” is not a dead end.
It’s an opening.

It means the story isn’t over.
It means there is still more ahead.

More healing.
More hope.
More love to be lived.

The road continues.

And somehow, even after the hardest endings, new life still finds a way to meet us there — often where we least expect it.

Holy Saturday

“I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope. My whole being waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning…” ~ Psalm 130:5–6

Yesterday, everything came to a stop.

The cross.

The final cry.

The stillness that followed.

And today—silence.

Holy Saturday is the day we rarely know what to do with. There is no action, no movement, no clear next step. Jesus is in the tomb. The disciples are scattered. Grief is fresh, and hope feels uncertain.

All through Lent, we have been asking: Are we there yet?

And again and again, the answer has been no.

But today, the question shifts.

Now it feels like: Was that it?

This is the space in between—between what has happened and what has not yet been revealed. And if we are honest, this space is not unfamiliar.

We know what it is to wait.

To sit with unanswered prayers.

To carry grief that does not lift overnight.

To live in moments where nothing seems to be happening, and yet everything feels different.

Holy Saturday reminds us that faith is not only lived in moments of clarity or breakthrough. Sometimes faith is simply staying.

Staying when there is nothing to fix.

Staying when there is no clear direction.

Staying when God feels quiet.

Because silence is not the same as absence.

There are no recorded words from Jesus on this day. No miracles. No explanations. And yet, the story is not over.

God is still present—even in the silence.

That may be the quiet invitation of this day: not to rush ahead, not to force meaning, but to remain. To trust that even when we cannot see movement, God is still at work in ways we do not yet understand.

We know what comes next. But today is not about arriving there early.

Today is about honoring the in-between.

So if this day feels heavy, or uncertain, or unfinished—that may be exactly where you are meant to be.

Not at the end.

Not yet at the beginning again.

But held in the silence in between.

Good Friday Reflection

When “Are We There Yet?” Finally Feels Like Yes

There’s a question that shows up in more places than road trips and restless kids: Are we there yet?

It’s the question beneath our timelines, our goals, our expectations. It lives in career plans, relationships, faith journeys, and quiet hopes about how life is supposed to unfold. We keep expecting to arrive—at clarity, at peace, at some version of “everything finally makes sense.”

And yet, again and again, the answer seems to be no.

Not when we reach something we thought would satisfy us.
Not when we follow the right path.
Not even when we do everything we were told should work.

Over time, that repeated no begins to teach something we may not have wanted to learn: life is less about arriving and more about continuing—walking, staying, trusting, even without resolution.

But there are moments when the question shifts. Moments when “Are we there yet?” feels less like impatience and more like a quiet, uneasy recognition:

This might be it.

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When the Road Runs Out

There are seasons in life when movement stops.

No more options to weigh.
No more strategies to try.
No clear next step forward.

It can come through loss, failure, grief, or simply the slow realization that something will not turn out the way we hoped. A relationship cannot be repaired. An opportunity is gone. A version of the future quietly disappears.

These are the moments when it feels like the road has run out.

And standing there, it can feel like arrival—but not the kind anyone would choose. Arrival at an ending. Arrival at something final.

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The Pressure for a Different Ending

When we reach those places, something in us resists. We look for a way out, a last-minute reversal, a breakthrough that will change the story.

We tell ourselves: Surely something will fix this.
Surely this isn’t how it ends.

We expect resolution. We expect power. We expect a visible turnaround that makes everything make sense again.

But not every moment meets those expectations.

Some moments don’t resolve on command. Some situations don’t reverse. Some endings remain endings—at least for now.

And that can feel like failure. Or absence. Or silence.

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The Strength of Staying

But there is another way to understand those moments—not as failures, but as places where something deeper is revealed.

Not the power to escape.
But the strength to remain.

There is a quiet kind of courage in staying present when everything in you wants to run. In not numbing out, not turning away, not pretending the pain isn’t real.

Staying in a hard conversation.
Staying with grief instead of rushing past it.
Staying in uncertainty without forcing false clarity.

This kind of staying is not passive. It’s not resignation. It’s a form of faithfulness—to the moment, to the truth, to love itself.

Because love, at its core, does not disappear when things get difficult.

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When “Not Arriving” Becomes Something Else

For most of us, not arriving feels like disappointment. We want resolution. We want to get somewhere solid.

But what if those unresolved places are not the end of the story?

Not because everything is suddenly okay.
Not because the pain disappears.
But because presence remains.

Even in the places that feel final, something—or Someone—can still meet us there.

And that changes things.

It doesn’t erase the difficulty. It doesn’t tie everything up neatly. But it means that even at what feels like the end, we are not abandoned to it.

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Holding On in the Dark

One of the hardest human experiences is feeling alone in suffering—especially when answers don’t come.

And yet, even in those moments, many people find themselves still reaching out. Still hoping. Still, somehow, holding onto relationship—whether through prayer, reflection, or simply the refusal to shut down completely.

That matters.

Because it suggests that even when meaning is unclear, connection is not entirely gone.

Even when the road ends, something remains.

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Not the Final Word

There are moments in life that feel final. Heavy. Unresolved.

Moments where the most honest thing to do is not to explain or fix—but simply to acknowledge: This is hard. This hurts. This doesn’t make sense.

And to stay there, without rushing past it.

But even then, there is a quiet possibility worth holding onto:

What feels like the end may not be the final word.

Not because we can already see what comes next.
But because endings, in ways we often only recognize later, are not always where the story stops.

Every year around this time, Christians tell a story that begins with a parade.

Crowds gather. Cloaks are spread across the road. Branches are waved in the air. People shout with joy:

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Luke 19:38)

It is loud. Hopeful. Electric.

And for a moment, it feels like everything is about to change.

But Palm Sunday—the day this story is remembered—is not just about celebration. It is about what happens when the celebration fades.

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The Question Beneath the Celebration

Throughout this season of Lent, we have been reflecting on a simple question: Are we there yet?

It is the question of anyone on a long journey—spiritual or otherwise. It is the question behind our longing for clarity, stability, and relief.

The Bible, in its honesty, rarely answers that question with a simple “yes.”

• After escaping Egypt, the people of Israel discovered that freedom was only the beginning of a longer journey (Exodus 15).
• Paul writes about faith not as arrival, but as pressing on toward what lies ahead (Philippians 3:12–14).
• The prophets remind us not to place ultimate hope in human leaders (Psalm 146:3).
• And again and again, scripture points toward a God who is always doing a “new thing” (Isaiah 43:19).

Palm Sunday seems, at first, like the moment the answer might finally be yes.

But it is not.

It is something more complex—and more meaningful.

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The Beauty (and Limits) of Big Moments

Most people know what it is like to look forward to a big moment.

A wedding. A graduation. A long-planned trip. A milestone achievement.

There is anticipation. Preparation. Imagination.

And then it arrives—full of joy, laughter, and significance.

But the next day always comes.

The dishes are still in the sink. The routine resumes. Life continues.

Even the most beautiful moments do not last forever.

Palm Sunday captures that exact human experience. It is a moment of real joy. And Jesus does not dismiss it. In fact, when some suggest quieting the crowd, Jesus responds:

“If these were silent, the stones would shout out.” (Luke 19:40)

Joy matters. Celebration matters. Faith is not meant to be joyless.

But joy, by itself, is not the destination.

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Expectations in the Crowd

The people lining the streets that day were not just celebrating.

They were hoping.

They had seen Jesus heal, teach, and challenge authority. They were longing for change—for relief, for justice, for a future made right.

So when Jesus entered Jerusalem, it looked like the moment had finally come.

But what looked like arrival was actually a threshold.

Because the road ahead would lead not to immediate triumph, but to conflict, suffering, and the cross.

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A Different Kind of King

One of the earliest Christian hymns describes the way Jesus moved through this moment:

“Christ Jesus… emptied himself, taking the form of a servant… and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.” (Philippians 2:5–8)

The crowd welcomed a king.

Jesus came as a servant.

The crowd expected a victory parade.

Jesus chose a path of humility and costly love.

This is the tension at the heart of Palm Sunday: celebration on the surface, surrender at the core.

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The Kind of Faith That Lasts

It is easy to show up for a parade.

It is harder to stay when the excitement fades.

Palm Sunday invites a deeper question than “Can you celebrate?” It asks, Can you remain?

Because real hope is not built only in moments of excitement. It is formed in daily faithfulness—in showing up again and again:

• in joy and in disappointment
• in clarity and in uncertainty
• in public celebration and in quiet, unseen acts of care

There is a quiet holiness in the ordinary moments—the unseen work, the steady presence, the willingness to keep going.

That is where faith takes root.

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Living Between Joy and Sorrow

Palm Sunday holds two realities together.

Joy and sorrow. Celebration and suffering. Hope and heartbreak.

The same voices that shout “Hosanna!” will, days later, fall silent or turn away.

And still, Jesus continues forward.

This reveals something essential about faith: it is not about avoiding difficulty or clinging to constant emotional highs. It is about learning to live honestly in both joy and sorrow.

Jesus does not rush past the celebration.

And does not run from the pain.

There is presence in both.

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The Role of Memory in Faith

One of the ways people sustain faith through changing seasons is by remembering.

Not alone—but together.

Remembering moments of joy. Times of unexpected grace. Seasons when strength was given just when it was needed.

Scripture itself is a record of shared memory—stories told and retold so that people would not forget who God has been.

Because memory strengthens endurance.

When joy fades or life becomes heavy, those memories remind us: the story is not over.

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So… Are We There Yet?

Palm Sunday answers that question gently:

Not yet.

The parade is not the destination.

The celebration is not the conclusion.

It is the beginning of a deeper journey.

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The Hope That Stays

There is, however, good news at the center of this story.

Even when the crowd wavers, Jesus does not.

Even when faith feels strong—or fragile—Christ remains steady.

The story of Holy Week reveals a kind of love that does not depend on applause. A love that continues through suffering. A love that stays.

And that is where hope is ultimately found.

Not in the parade.

But in the One at the center of it.

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Palm Sunday invites celebration.

It also invites endurance.

It calls people not only to wave branches, but to keep walking—even when the road becomes difficult.

Because while the journey is not finished, no one walks it alone.

And that, perhaps, is enough to keep going.

Over time, many people—whether deeply religious or simply spiritually curious—find themselves asking a version of the same question: Are we there yet?

Are we finally settled? Have we arrived at clarity, stability, or peace?

Scripture returns to this question again and again, often answering in unexpected ways.

The story of Israel in the wilderness reminds us that freedom is not the same as arrival. Being led out of Egypt was only the beginning; staying free required continued trust in God (Exodus 16–17). The journey itself mattered.

Paul echoes this same truth centuries later: “Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on…” (Philippians 3:12). Faith, in this sense, is not something we possess once and for all—it is something we live into.

Other voices in Scripture challenge where we place our trust. The psalmist warns, “Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help” (Psalm 146:3). Even the strongest leadership cannot carry the weight of ultimate hope.

And when people long for a return to a “better past,” the prophets gently but firmly redirect that instinct. “Do not remember the former things… I am about to do a new thing” (Isaiah 43:18–19). Faithfulness is not found in recreating what was, but in recognizing what God is doing now.

Across these stories, a pattern emerges. Again and again, Scripture exposes the same illusions:

• that freedom should feel easy,
• that faith should feel settled,
• that leaders should make us secure,
• that the past can be recovered if we just hold on tightly enough.

And then comes another layer of insight—one that may be the most uncomfortable of all.

When Faith Becomes Familiar

The prophet Micah offers a clear and disarming summary of what God desires:
“What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8).

It is simple. Direct. Hard to avoid.

Because it suggests something unsettling: it is entirely possible to be religious—to participate in rituals, attend services, say prayers—and still miss the heart of faith.

This tension comes into sharp focus in a well-known scene from the Gospel of John.

Jesus enters the temple in Jerusalem, the center of religious life, and finds it filled with merchants and money changers. At first glance, this activity had a practical purpose. Travelers needed a way to participate in temple worship; systems were created to make that possible.

But over time, something shifted.

What began as a helpful accommodation became an entrenched system—one that could burden and exclude, especially the poor. Worship was still happening. The temple was still busy. But the heart of it had drifted.

Jesus responds dramatically:
“Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the temple… He overturned the tables…” (John 2:15).

This is not a moment of mild correction. It is disruption.

Because sometimes the greatest obstacles to genuine faith are not obviously wrong things—but good things that have slowly lost their purpose.

The Danger of “Doing Everything Right”

It is easy to assume that we would recognize such a problem from the outside. But the people in the temple likely believed they were doing exactly what they were supposed to do.

That is what makes this story so relevant.

The real danger is not always rebellion. Often, it is unexamined faith—practices that become routine, then unquestioned, and eventually indispensable simply because they are familiar.

This pattern is not limited to ancient religion. It shows up anywhere people seek meaning:

• in traditions that continue long after their purpose is forgotten,
• in systems that once helped but now constrain,
• in habits that feel safe but no longer bring life.

From the inside, everything can still look right. But familiarity is not the same as faithfulness.

A Shift at the Center

After clearing the temple, Jesus is challenged to explain his authority. His response is cryptic:

“Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:19).

Listeners assume he is speaking about the building. But the Gospel clarifies:
“He was speaking of the temple of his body” (John 2:21).

This reframes everything.

For generations, the temple had been the place where heaven and earth met—where people encountered God. But now Jesus points to himself as that meeting place.

The center of faith shifts from a structure to a person.

This does not diminish the value of sacred spaces or practices. But it does redefine their role. They are not the destination. They are meant to point beyond themselves.

Because the foundation of faith is not a building, a system, or even a tradition.

It is Christ.

What Needs Overturning?

This raises a question that is both personal and universal:

What, in one’s own life, has become so familiar that it is no longer examined?

What began as helpful—but may now be hollow?

The answer is not always obvious. Often, these are good things:

• routines that once grounded us,
• roles that once gave purpose,
• communities or structures that once nurtured growth.

But over time, even good things can take on too much weight. They can become substitutes for the deeper relationship they were meant to support.

In the temple, Jesus overturns tables not to destroy faith, but to restore it.

The same pattern continues. Disruption, in this sense, is not the opposite of faith—it can be part of how faith is renewed.

Still On the Way

So the question remains: Are we there yet?

Scripture’s consistent answer is no.

Not because the journey is aimless, but because faith is not about arriving at a perfectly stable place. It is about remaining connected to the One who is constant.

Even when familiar structures shift.
Even when long-held assumptions are challenged.
Even when the tables are overturned.

The same voice that disrupts also promises renewal:
“Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” (John 2:19)

That is the hope at the center of the story.

Not that everything will stay the same—but that even when something ends, new life is possible.

So perhaps the better question is not whether we have arrived.

It is whether, in the midst of change and uncertainty, we can recognize the presence of Christ—still leading, still renewing, still calling us forward.

And wherever Christ is, the true center of faith is already there.