We began that morning with uncertainty. Ten minutes before 8:30 AM, only two had arrived to join us. It felt small, almost fragile—like the beginning might not unfold as hoped. But as we started the Stations of the Cross, others slowly came. One by one, they joined until we became nineteen in all, including two children. What started as a seemingly quiet gathering became a shared journey of hearts seeking Jesus.
At each station, we took turns reading the passages. With every stop, Ptr. Jayvee offered reflections that gently guided us deeper—not just into understanding, but into encounter. We prayed together, our voices sometimes strong, sometimes trembling, carried by the weight of what we were remembering.
Some of the stations were set along hilly paths. As I walked, I found myself wondering: What must it have truly been like for the Lord to carry the cross? He had already been brutally scourged—His body torn, blood flowing, strength depleted. And yet He walked.
Even in the morning, the sun was already intense. I could feel it pressing against my skin, draining my energy. It made me realize, even in the smallest way, the physical suffering Jesus endured. But His was far beyond discomfort—it was agony wrapped in obedience and love.
At one point, we tried to carry the cross ourselves—Josiah, Jayvee and I. It was heavy. So heavy that I could barely walk with it. In that moment, something shifted inside me. This is what my sin costs. Not just symbolically, but truly—weighty, crushing, unbearable. And yet, He carried it… for me.
Each station ended with a minute of silence. At first, the silence felt routine, almost like a pause to complete a program. But as we continued, those quiet moments became sacred spaces. The reflections lingered. The reality sank in. The cross was no longer distant—it was deeply personal.
I remember reaching the 10th station—when Jesus was stripped of His garments. Something broke in me. I felt His humiliation, His vulnerability, His pain. Tears came, not out of obligation, but מתוך encounter. I was no longer just observing the Stations—I was entering into them.
What began as a ritual slowly became a revelation.
By the time we reached the final station, I was the one reading—Jesus being laid in the tomb. My voice carried both sorrow and awe. There was grief in that moment, a deep heaviness in my heart… but not without hope.
Because even in the silence of the tomb, there is a promise.
Even in death, there is expectation.
As I finished reading, I realized—I was no longer just remembering His suffering. I was anticipating His victory.
And so I walked away that morning not just moved, but changed.
From ritual to relationship.
From remembrance to encounter.
From sorrow… to hope.
Because the story does not end at the cross.
Resurrection Sunday is coming.
BELOVED 
Leave a comment