“The cloth that had been on Jesus’ head… was folded up in a place by itself.” John 20:7
A folded napkin on a stone slab—resurrection’s whisper.
Not chaos, not haste. A deliberate act. A sign for the beloved disciple.
How many things do we leave folded neatly behind? What signs of life do we miss?
The risen One leaves not just an empty tomb, but a message in linen.
“And the Lord appointed a great fish to swallow up Jonah.” — Jonah 1:17
The prophet finds himself in the dark, wet cathedral of the fish’s belly; an unlikely sanctuary.
Jonah’s descent was not for punishment or correction alone, but for his preservation. The Great Fish; not a monster, but a mercy.
The fish becomes a midwife, not an executioner. The prophet is almost reborn through lament. He is confined but free to preach again, even though his heart is still distant from God.
Sing this psalm as the fish rises from the deep, and let it ricochet off the ribs of grace.
“There was silence in heaven for about half an hour.” — Revelation 8:1
The hush before the downbeat, the held breath before the trumpet is Silence, not as absence, but as reverence. The pause in heaven is divine punctuation!
Greek: σιγή (sigē) is silence, stillness; used twice in the NT, marks awe or judgment. We know, our turn comes to face the silences of life: grief, waiting, and reverence. These are not voids but vessels.
A musician’s rest and readiness to pluck a string, to construct a Selah as in the psalms, a womb where sound gestates.
“This is not the silence of indecision—it is the hush of divine resolve. The courtroom has fallen still. Judgment, κρίσις, krisis—the weighing of hearts—is complete. κρίμα, krima—the sentence—is about to begin. It is as if YHWH leans forward and whispers, “Hush now.”
Silence in Scripture is never empty. It is the fullness of meaning too weighty for words. In Revelation 8:1, heaven falls silent—not from confusion, but from awe. The Lamb has opened the final seal. The scroll is no longer sealed. Nothing more needs to be said.
And we remember another silence:
“He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth…” — Isaiah 53:7
Yeshua stood silent before Pilate, not in weakness, but in sovereignty. The Word made flesh chose not to speak, because the truth was already standing in the room. The Lamb was judged in silence so He could judge in righteousness.
Sometimes, the Spirit says, “Be still,” not to hush us, but to heal us. Sometimes, in the face of accusation or sorrow, the Sovereign invites us into the silence of the Lamb—not to be voiceless, but to be anchored. To say with our stillness: “Nothing more needs to be said. The truth stands.”
“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies …”
Psalm 23:5
Two people sit across from each other. The air is thick with memory—some tender, some torn. The table between them is not just furniture; it is a field. A place where silence can speak, and bread can bear witness. This Drop explores the sacred tension of shared presence when reconciliation is still unfolding.
The table is not a resolution—it is a risk. To sit across from someone who has wounded you, or whom you’ve wounded, is to enter a space where words may fail and presence must carry the weight.
But the table is not ours to prepare. It is set by a Host who knows every ache. The bread is not a bribe—it is a balm. And in the breaking, something begins to mend.
🍽️ Shulḥan as a Hub of Generosity.
In Hebrew, שֻׁלְחָן (shulḥan) means more than table—it is a hub of generosity. In ancient Israel, the table was a place of covenantal hospitality, justice, and divine provision. It echoed the altar, where bread was not hoarded but offered.
– The shulḥan is where hunger meets holiness.
– It is not a shelf—it is a sending place.
– To feed another is to participate in God’s generosity.
Not peace without pain,
But bread with memory
And wine with ache.
The table does not erase the wound
It names it,
And feeds us anyway.
Between us:
Not silence,
But a setting.
And in the breaking,
We begin to see.
Life is Fun, But Not a Joke 