Faith When It Doesn’t Make Sense: A Good Friday Reflection

Today, we missed the first mass. My daughter needed a nap, and as she slept longer than expected, I found myself in that familiar, low-level hum of a rush, trying to navigate the logistics of a toddler’s schedule against the solemnity of the day. We arrived fifteen minutes late to the second mass, slipping into our usual section in the back. As we walked in, I tried, in that gentle and hushed way you do with a two-year-old, to explain that today was different. It wasn't a day for the usual songs; it was a quiet mass, a sad one, a day that required us to simply be still.

The moment we crossed the threshold, the shift was visceral. You could feel the tone immediately—it was solemn, heavy, and incredibly still. There was only presence. Today marks the death of Jesus Christ, and there is a profound, uncomfortable weight in realizing this day asks you to sit with the sadness and the heartbreak of it all. It is about the suffering, the betrayal, the grief, and the sacrifice. It is a day that refuses to let you skip ahead, asking instead that you remain in the silence of it, exactly as it is, without trying to fix the feeling.

For me, it always becomes real the moment I see the cross. Walking up to touch it, I am forced to confront something difficult. It is a moment of something sacred being broken in a painful way. Yet, this very moment is the foundation of everything we believe. I found myself thinking deeply about that final, piercing cry from the cross:

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” These words, spoken right before the end, have never sounded like certainty or peace to me; they sound like pure, human anguish. They serve as a reminder that even in perfect faith, there can be moments that feel like total abandonment. It is a permission slip for us to feel the weight of our own heavy moments without feeling like we have "failed" at trusting.

Before we walked into that church, I’ll admit I wasn't centered. I was in my head, mentally checking off my to-do list, and carrying an underlying stress I couldn’t quite shake. Beneath the surface, there were the quieter, more persistent thoughts: the subtle sting of comparison, the nagging feeling of being behind, and the wondering of when, exactly, things will finally align. I believe in prayer and the power of surrender, and I know that bringing our burdens to Jesus is where miracles begin. But that doesn't mean it feels clear while you’re in it. Sometimes, it just feels heavy and unexplained.

And yet, we still went. Even running late, even with a toddler who didn't fully understand, and even with my own internal noise, we showed up. Maybe that is what faith actually looks like more often than we admit. It isn't always a state of clarity or a series of things falling into place. Often, it is simply the act of showing up anyway—sitting in the middle of something you don’t fully understand, and holding reverence for a space that is both sacred and painful.

Today doesn’t resolve the questions or tie the loose ends of our lives into a neat bow. It simply asks us to witness, to remember, and to stay present in the parts of our journey that don’t make sense yet. Faith isn't always found in the answers; sometimes, it is found in the remaining. It is staying in the room when it's heavy, staying in the prayer when it's silent, and remaining steady even when the alignment we seek feels miles away.

About the Author | Day 93

I am a soul-led coach, business owner, and consultant, practicing the art of the Gentle Reset. On Day 93 of this journey—this solemn Friday—I am reflecting on the truth that Jesus died because He refused to be anything but the Truth. It is a powerful reminder of what it means to be "in the world, but not of it." It is a call to stay present in our own truth, even when it stands in opposition to the world's demands. My work in Somatic Healing and the Nervous System is about finding the internal safety to remain anchored in that truth, even when life feels heavy, unclear, or unexplained.

Thank you for being part of this journey toward inner stillness, somatic safety, and collective light, Dear Reader. ❤️