While the sun still sleeps and darkness hangs out, I gather my things. Race bib, shoes, headphones. I review the logistics in my head. Many steps stand between me and my first half-marathon.

My mind wanders to the sanctuary, where we sat last night in darkness at the end of our Tenebrae service. A service of shadows. A service of death. Black fabric still drapes the communion table and pulpit. As the birds began their day’s song, I know that the darkness sits in silence even now.

The complex theological questions of Good Friday swirl in my head (where was Jesus’ father, Joseph, while Mary wailed? Where was Jesus’ father, the Holy One, while love and sorrow flowed mingled down?). Yesterday the questions seemed important to think through. Today, they seem rhetorical. On the silence of Holy Saturday, faith is not about understanding the mystery. It is about communion with the mystery.

One foot in front of the other, I step out this morning for 13.1 Originally, it was a goal set based off of my youngest’s first birthday. But this morning, I readjust my eyes.   I run for Holy Saturday. I run to taste the limits of this physical life while soaking in the gift of it all.

In between Good Friday and Easter morning, I pause and recognize the Great Sadness that is fear, estrangement, and isolation – that which breaks the heart and creates dead-men-walking.

And yet, I give thanks that even during the in-between-time, there is the promise of More. For today, there is Life. For today, there is air to breathe, legs to carry me, and eyes to take it all in. And for tomorrow, I trust that there will be news that surprises and shocks and changes everything – Life lives on. Love wins. This journey will be worth the ashes.