It all happened so quickly.
One day the crowds are following Him, flocking to Him, mobbing Him. They cannot get enough of Him. He is magnetic, disarming, surprising. He is authority and tenderness, intriguing and mysterious. He speaks with an ancient wisdom, a direct voice to the darkest piece of the heart.
They are whispering about Him, nudging their neighbor and nodding to the tall man who walks with purpose.
He is something else, something other-worldy, and when He looks out at the crowd, He looks with familiarity, with a recognition and assurance that His story is the very same as theirs.
But His time has run out.
His time has come.
The crowds are soon unimpressed. They are growing restless, thirsty, tired of listening to the words of a prophet, His words hitting far, far too close to home.
A mere five days later, and the fickle crowd is demanding His death.
And so it comes.
His followers scatter, struck dumb and inactive, the One who claimed to be God’s very own son dead. Pierced. Entombed.
And now they wait. But for what, they do not know. They only know they cannot let hope slip through their trembling fingers.
And so we wait.
We wait to see what will happen, we wait to see if He will keep His promise. We wait to see if there is any truth to pour ourselves back into, we wait to see if our lives have lost its purpose, His message.
We wait to see if the dawn will break, because this black night is far too suffocating to last.
For now, we are the waiting.