I’ve been thinking about the time in the middle lately – the time after the beginning and before the journey’s end. A time of muddling through the mundane and dreary to dos. A time of waking each day to the same old battles. A time of struggling forward without seeing the end in clear sight. This is where much of life happens. After the big start, the launch, the heading out, there is the slogging, paddling, one foot in front of the other hope of reaching the end. The end is where the celebration embraces the weary, where the scars of battle are shown and stories heard. The end is when we rest, collapse, and let go.

But what about Saturday? Friday’s work is done and Sunday’s celebration has yet to begin. What happens in the middle? Do we hold on to what has just happened or cling to hope of something better to come? Do we turn our face away from the horror of Friday’s end towards a future we can’t quite see? The doldrums hold still. No movement either way. We can’t go back or move forward. We wait. Frozen in time. In Between.