Between Dust and the Cross

Today is April 4.
Holy Saturday.
Yesterday was Good Friday, and I have been thinking.

On Ash Wednesday, I wrote about dust. About how we are not as permanent as we think. I thought that was the lesson. I did not know what Lent would actually do to me.

This year, I had no plan. No structure. No “3-1-1.” In fact, I was tired. I did not even feel like praying. I was ready to just move through Lent quietly, like someone who had already told God, “See, I will try again next year. This year, let me just manage attendance and be done with it, abeg.” Even seeing people’s efforts to grow closer to God was starting to feel like too much. But something unexpected happened.

Every morning before Mass, the Blessed Sacrament was already exposed, so I would go in early and sit. Not because I planned to. It was just there. After Mass, I would go about my day, and in the evening, the tram would drop me right in front of the church again. And I thought to myself, why go home and struggle to pray when I can just stop here, say what I need to say, or say nothing at all, and then go home to rest?

So I started going. Morning and night. No pressure. No long intentions. Just showing up.

And somehow, that changed everything.

For the first time, I found myself saying my complete office as a Legionary in the Legion of Mary. The Rosary, the Catena, the concluding prayers, praying for the Legion. Me, that had stopped long ago. I did not plan it. I just kept saying, let me do it today. Maybe tomorrow I will not. Then tomorrow came, and I did it again.

Confession became a weekly thing. Not because I suddenly became disciplined. If anything, I am the one who negotiates with herself. But the priest was always there, and I was always there. So I would say, let me just go this week. Maybe I will not go next week. And then I went the next week. And the next. And the next.

The Stations of the Cross, every Wednesday and Friday. I always had a genuine reason not to go. I did not plan it, and I did not even want to learn how to follow it properly on my own. The last time it felt real was when I used to follow my grandmother, who never missed it. She is no longer here, so I told myself, why bother? And somewhere in my mind, I even had that slightly ridiculous excuse, “Jesus, I did not kill you all by myself.” Still, I began with one simple thought: let me just do it today. Maybe I will not do it tomorrow. And somehow, everything I could never sustain when I had a plan, I was now doing without one.

It humbled me.

The priest would place his hand on my head during absolution, and something about that stayed with me. My penance was often to pray for those who do not ask God for forgiveness, and for those who do not reverence Him. If only he knew what I was carrying inside. But I prayed. I really prayed for them. And during Holy Week, when he asked me to pray for persecuted Christians, I realised something deeper was happening. It was as if God was gently pulling my attention away from myself.

There was a day I walked in and I was already overwhelmed. He looked at me and said, “My daughter, do not be afraid.” And I almost laughed inside. Father, if you knew the thoughts I had before I walked in here, you would understand. Me, I am already tired of the sins of the whole world, so before my heart gives up, let me just remove my own from the list before judgment starts.

But somehow, I kept showing up.
And over time, the Stations of the Cross began to undo me.

I found myself crying almost every day. Not loudly. Just quiet tears that come when something finally settles in your spirit. Some moments refused to leave me. When Jesus fell the third time, and they made sure He did not die before reaching Calvary. They kept Him alive just to finish what they started. That level of cruelty disturbed me.

Then they stripped Him. The One who clothes the lilies, stripped naked. I could not process it. Then the nails. The force. The body. The weight. And still, they mocked Him.

And then His Mother.

I kept thinking, I cannot watch my own sibling go through that. Now imagine Mary. If I were her, I think they would have had to crucify me first, or along with Him, or I would have been in a coma through it all and wake up to hear He had been buried. How did she stand there and watch everything? Mother Mary, how?

And yesterday, when the cross was brought out for veneration, I thought I would simply walk up, kiss it, and move on. But when I got there, I could not stand. I knelt. And I found myself kissing beneath His feet, because in that moment, I did not even feel worthy to look up.

I noticed people approached differently. Some reverent. Some casual. I am not judging anyone. But I found myself wondering, did we all pause long enough to see?

And in the middle of all of this, something else was happening in my life. I became more aware of people. Of selfishness. Of words that wound. Of small behaviours that slowly wear you down. Things I had probably ignored before. This time, I could not ignore them.

And yet, instead of hardening me, it softened me.

It became easier to forgive. Not because people changed, but because I kept going back to Him. And I realised something else. For me to truly forgive and remain close to God, I had to choose silence. Not because people offended me beyond forgiveness, but because stepping back, closing certain chapters, and counting my loss became the only way to keep my peace before Christ.

I am still finding myself. I realised I am a human being with very high standards, and maybe I have had to quietly renegotiate those standards just to remain at peace. Not lowering my values, but learning how to live with people without losing myself.

And somewhere in all of this, I kept saying to God, I do not even know how You will judge us. Because after everything You suffered, part of me keeps thinking… is that not already enough? Who can stand if we are truly judged?

Today is Holy Saturday. The quiet day. The waiting. Christ has died, but we have not yet said Alleluia. And this is what I am holding on to.

Sometimes, when we have no plan, God already has one.

Because everything I have tried to plan in the past, I have failed at. But this Lent, with no plan, no structure, no expectations, I showed up one day at a time. Just today. Let me do it today. Maybe I will not do it tomorrow.

And somehow, God supplied the grace for each day.

I even found myself keeping fasts and abstinence along the way. At some point I checked my weight and realised I had lost over 5kg. Me? I am still trying to understand what happened. I just kept showing up for one day. Only one day.

I am still surprised at myself. I am still humbled.

And maybe that is the key. Living one day at a time is not just discipline. It is dependence. Because it is God who gives the grace for today, the strength for today, and the help for today.

So before the joy of Easter comes, maybe we can pause here, just for a moment, and ask ourselves honestly, where do I stand?

Not in comparison to anyone else. But with Him.

Can I keep forgiving?
Can I remain soft without breaking?
Can I stay, even when I do not feel like it?
Can I choose silence where I need to, and still love from a distance?
Can I live one day at a time, and let God meet me there?

Because if Ash Wednesday reminded me that I am dust,
Good Friday showed me that this dust is worth every pain, every drop of blood, every sacrifice, every humiliation, every wound, death itself, and the promise of life without end.

And I am still trying to understand that.
I still cannot wrap my head around it. It is too beautiful for my mind to comprehend.

If only they knew that the very thing they used to shame Him would become what we now carry without fear. What we wear with pride. What many have died for. What we trace on our foreheads to invoke the Blessed Trinity. What we hold with love. What we kiss to remember how privileged we are.

The cross was meant to end Him. Instead, it is the sign that brings us back to life. And somewhere beyond this silence of today, we know that Alleluia is coming.

Yours,
waiting for the grace to take the next step,