Finding Peace in the In-Between: Navigating Hope and Reality Through Holy Week

Life often challenges our understanding of hope and reality. These struggles can leave us stuck in a confusing space—a place theologians call the already, but not yet. This tension feels especially present during Holy Week, a time marked by reflection, grief, and the promise of redemption.

In recent months, I’ve found myself living in that in-between. Seminary taught me about the rhythms of lament and hope—about holding tension with grace. But learning those truths in a classroom is different than living them out in the day-to-day. Whether it’s a friendship I long to rebuild or the complex relationship I have with my father, I find myself straddling the line between what is and what I wish could be.

These are the spaces where faith becomes real—where we’re called not just to believe in resurrection, but to live as though it's possible. And that takes both courage and openness.

The Already, But Not Yet

The phrase “the already, but not yet” captures the bittersweet feeling many of us carry. It speaks to the tension of experiencing joy while still holding the weight of struggle.

Holy Week begins with the celebration of Palm Sunday, as Jesus enters Jerusalem to cheers and palm branches. But that joy quickly shifts into a solemn stillness. The disciples felt the dissonance—hope mingled with confusion, anticipation shadowed by impending loss.

In our personal lives, we experience similar landscapes. I’m in the process of rebuilding a friendship that once meant so much to me, but became strained—for good and valid reasons on my friend’s part. As we work toward reconnecting, I often feel torn between gratitude for the progress we’ve made and a deep longing for something more whole. Sitting in that shadow is hard. The tension within me is real. Yet something in me still hopes—and keeps me from walking away.

I’m slowly learning that healing doesn’t always mean going back to what was. Sometimes, it means building something new—something healthier.

Some days I feel encouraged. Other days, I feel the ache of what’s still missing. This is the already, but not yet: recognizing growth, while still yearning for more.

The Wounds We Carry

At the same time, my relationship with my father has brought about a different kind of grief. The weight of his past actions and the distance that remains between us have led me into deep reflection. I long for a relationship that feels whole, but I often feel caught in a cycle of pain and silence.

It’s a strange place to be—to love someone, to want closeness, and still feel the sting of what’s unresolved. But even here, hope persists. Wanting a healthier relationship isn't about rewriting the past; it’s about choosing love in the face of brokenness. It’s about embracing the tension and still looking for something better.

Holy Week holds space for this exact tension. It begins in celebration, dives deep into despair on Good Friday, and lingers in the stillness of Holy Saturday before the joy of Easter morning. The disciples knew that whiplash. They rejoiced, only to be crushed by loss. Yet even in their confusion and grief, they remained tethered by hope.

That’s what I cling to—that even in silence, in struggle, something new can still rise.

Grief and Growth

This season has taught me that vulnerability is not weakness. To say, “I miss you,” or “This hurt me,” or “I want things to be better,” takes more courage than silence ever did. Vulnerability creates the space for transformation, just as Christ’s surrender on the cross created space for resurrection.

In both friendship and family, I’m learning that reaching out isn’t about fixing everything. It’s about offering presence. It’s about choosing love, even when it costs.

Grief has a way of unearthing our deepest needs—for validation, for connection, for peace. But love teaches us even more. As I continue to process my father’s actions and the state of our relationship, I feel that paradox deeply: wanting to honor the past and my pain, while also holding hope for what could be.

Reality is messy. And yet, just like Holy Week, it is a place where life and death, sorrow and resurrection, coexist. Healing—real, slow, sacred healing—requires us to walk that road with honesty and courage.

Hope as an Anchor

While the in-between may be difficult, hope becomes our anchor. It doesn’t deny pain—it holds space for it, while reaching toward something greater. Hope reminds us to be patient—not with passive waiting, but with active presence.

Healing takes time. It happens in the small things: the hesitant text, the honest conversation, a visit to a jail cell, the willingness to sit in discomfort. The ability to hold on, even when we don’t know what the outcome will be. It reminds me of Holy Saturday—that quiet, often forgotten day, where hope lingers even when nothing seems to be happening.

Sometimes, healing looks like nothing. But beneath the surface, something is shifting.

When I think about my father, hope keeps me going. I see the damage, but I also believe that restoration is possible. Wanting a healthier connection isn’t selfish—it’s a sign of love. Of commitment. Of not giving up.

Living Between Good Friday and Easter

Holy Week reminds us that we live in a world where joy and sorrow are intermixed. We’re always somewhere between Good Friday and Easter Sunday—carrying grief while still holding out for resurrection.

This is the tension I carry as I navigate a strained friendship and a fractured relationship with my father. I’m learning to honor both the pain and the longing. To find beauty in the ache. To believe, even when it’s hard, that something new can still emerge—from love, from faith, from the raw places we’re tempted to avoid.

And I’m hoping—beyond all hope—that I can continue to grow in and through all of it.