saturday Is the Day No One Talks About: Living in the Long Middle of Faith

BY ANDREA GILLHOOLLEY, INTERIM DIRECTOR OF COMMUNICATIONS

​Some stories don’t live on Good Friday or Easter.

They live in Saturday.

Hi, my name is Andrea. I’m a grateful believer in Jesus Christ, and I struggle with my health, people-pleasing, anger, and grief. That’s how we introduce ourselves at Celebrate Recovery at Church of the Good Shepherd —a Christ-centered 12-step ministry for anyone seeking freedom from hurts, habits, and hang-ups.

I remember this photo of my husband Jason and I. It was taken in 2020. While the world was falling apart, I was having one of the best years of my life. Life slowed down. The pressure lifted. I got healthy, found rhythm, and even stood at an outdoor Celebrate Recovery service saying, “Sometimes, the wind is at your back.”

That year, it was.

Six years later, I can barely stand without getting winded.

At 43, with two kids and a full-time job, my body no longer feels like my own. Post-viral fatigue, nervous system dysfunction, insomnia, and digestive issues have shrunk my world into small, careful increments. But the hardest part isn’t physical—it’s spiritual. For eight months, I’ve prayed the same prayers and heard nothing back.

I used to be the one who showed up—leading, serving, solving problems, carrying the invisible mental load. Always asking: Am I doing enough? That drive for control, for self-reliance, quietly became my foundation.

And then, I couldn’t show up at all.

I started missing work, moments with my kids, pieces of my own life. Sleep disappeared. Some nights stretched to 36 hours without sleep. I went from doctor to doctor with no answers. I lost 10 pounds in six weeks. I couldn’t eat solid food and swallow right, couldn’t breathe right, daily waves of crashing fatigue, couldn’t function—and I grieved as my life seemed to slip away.

It began to take hold in July 2025—the same week I received my 10-year recovery coin. I asked God what He wanted for the next decade of my life. That day, the lights went out. Sleep vanished. And for the first time, I understood real darkness.
Psalm 88 became my language: “darkness is my closest friend.” No resolution. No clear hope. Just silence.

Good Friday felt personal yesterday. Everything I believe is being tested. The core of the first three of 12 steps in recovery come down to this: I can’t. God can. I think I’ll let Him.

Surrender is no longer theoretical. It is necessary.

And I say this not in the past tense because this battle is happening in real time.

And still— grace comes. Not dramatically, but through people. My husband holding our home together. Friends and family showing up. My team stepping in. My mother sitting with me, day after day, offering a quiet, selfless love that kept me grounded.

I’ve had to grieve so much—discomfort most days, foods I can’t eat, traditions I’ve lost, sleep I've lost, a life that looks nothing like it used to. Even surrounded by food at work, I can’t partake. Recovery has required sacrifice in ways I never expected.

What I once taught others is now real: honesty about limits, surrender to what I can’t control, and the necessity of true community. Healing isn’t something I can force. It’s something I have to receive—slowly.

But this is not a story of resolution.

This is the long middle.

Holy Saturday.

The space where nothing seems to happen. Where prayers feel unanswered. Where healing feels distant. Where you live between what was and what will be.

And yet—even here—something is unfolding.

It reminds me of Exodus 23:10-11:
“For six years you are to sow your fields and harvest the crops, but during the seventh year let the land lie unplowed and unused. Then the poor among your people may get food from it, and the wild animals may eat what is left. Do the same with your vineyard and your olive grove.”

By resting the land, the Israelites are reminded that their security comes from God, not from constant human effort or control over the earth. It’s an act of faith: trusting that God will provide even when normal activity stops.

Holy Saturday is intensely quiet. Jesus is in the tomb. The world is holding its breath. A seed is buried in the dark.

And beneath the fatigue, beneath the silence, something is still at work.

I am learning—slowly—to trust that the story is still moving forward.
Sunday is coming.