The story of one life spanning 33 years culminated over a 3-day period. A life’s work came down to one weekend — what Christians now celebrate as Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday. Death, burial and resurrection. It’s the ultimate redemption story.

I love redemption stories. I love when life springs forth after death. I love a good story of renewal and restoration. I love the Sunday miracle.

But what if Sunday never comes?

What if there are those of us who never get the redemption, the restoration? What if some situations are just too screwed up to ever be made right? What if we’re treading among the burial grounds and there’s no Sunday sunrise?

For some of us, a life’s work and purpose never make it past the court of accusation and condemnation.

For some of us, death has prevailed, the tomb is sealed, and the guards are standing firm. Our hearts are beating, but we look and feel like we’ve flatlined.

For some of us, Saturday is a lifetime, and holiness is hard to find.

For some of us, Sunday never comes, and there are no choirs singing Hallelujah. There’s only the monotonous sound of silence.

There are those of us whose redemption stories may only be found on the other side of life.

Meanwhile, we wait with fading hope for a glimmer of morning light amidst our mourning. We wait for the one who makes all things new to make an appearance and perform a miracle. We wait for a Sunday that may never rise again.