Some people have food every day, a place to call home, and comfort all around them, yet act as if life has done them wrong. I don’t say that with judgment. I understand it. I’ve been there too. But my perspective changed the day I truly experienced lack—real hunger, lost shelter, nights filled with uncertainty and fear. It stripped away every illusion of control and taught me to see grace in what the world calls "small things."
A hot cup of coffee in a quiet place. A moment of peace. The comfort of shelter. These are no longer ordinary to me. They are sacred. They are mercy.
And on this Black Saturday, I think of the silence that followed the crucifixion. Christ had been buried. The disciples were scattered, grieving, confused. The world was waiting, but for what, they didn’t yet know.
Black Saturday is about that waiting. That heaviness. That unknown space between suffering and resurrection. I know that place. Many of us do.
It’s in those silent Saturdays of life, when the pain has come but the healing hasn’t yet arrived, that gratitude matters most. Not a loud, performative gratitude, but a quiet, steady one. The kind that whispers: I’m still here. I still believe. I am still thankful, even in the silence.
Because I’ve learned that grace doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it comes in the form of breath in your lungs. A place to sit. A kind word. A second chance.
Holy Week, especially Black Saturday, reminds me that even in the waiting, even in the grief, we are not forsaken. And gratitude, however small, becomes an act of faith—a quiet resistance against despair.
So today, I give thanks. For everything. For the storm I came through. For the silence that taught me to listen. For the God who works even in the dark, when all seems lost.
Because Sunday is coming, and with it, hope will rise again.
