Between the beach and the Cross
As children, we did not fully understand the theology behind it. But we understood the silence. It was not empty — it was heavy, meaningful, almost sacred.
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As children, we did not fully understand the theology behind it. But we understood the silence. It was not empty — it was heavy, meaningful, almost sacred.
Holy Week arrives each year with a familiar paradox. It is, at once, the most sacred stretch in our calendar — and, increasingly, one of the most tempting times to leave it all behind. With the children out of school and work slowing to a pause, the pull of beaches, the cool mountain air, a long-overdue vacation grows stronger. There is nothing inherently wrong with taking a rest. But somewhere along the way, we may have forgotten that this week was never meant to simply be a break from routine — it is an invitation to return to the Lord.
I am reminded of Holy Weeks spent in the province, under the watchful eyes of our parents and grandparents who treated these days with a kind of reverence that did not need explanation. The house would grow quieter as the week unfolded. By Good Friday, an unspoken rule settled over us: no loud laughter, no blaring radios, no careless noise. “Tahimik muna,” they would remind us. “Patay pa ang Panginoon.” Sometimes, bathing was not even allowed. The Lord is still dead.
As children, we did not fully understand the theology behind it. But we understood the silence. It was not empty — it was heavy, meaningful, almost sacred. It forced us to slow down, to be still, to feel. In that stillness, we sensed that something profound had happened, something that demanded not just belief, but a response.
Today, that silence is harder to find. Notifications buzz, resorts fill, vacations compete for attention. Holy Week risks becoming just another long weekend, another opportunity to escape rather than to encounter. Yet the call of the season remains unchanged. It is a call to remember sacrifice, to reflect on grace, and to draw near to Jesus who gave everything.
To devote time to the Lord during Holy Week does not necessarily mean withdrawing completely from family or rest. Rather, it is about intentionality. It is choosing to carve out moments for prayer amid the noise, to attend liturgies not out of obligation but with openness, to read Scripture not as routine but as conversation. It is allowing the story of suffering and redemption to speak to our own lives.
Perhaps it also means recovering small practices we once took for granted. Turning down the volume. Pausing before meals to pray more deliberately. Setting aside time for the Stations of the Cross. Gathering the family not just for outings, but for reflection. In doing so, we rediscover that faith is not confined to churches — it is lived in homes, in habits, in the quiet choices we make.
Holy Week is not meant to compete with our plans; it is meant to reorient them. The rest we seek in vacations is, at its deepest level, a longing for peace — a peace that no destination can fully provide. That peace is found in Christ, in remembering His sacrifice, and in embracing the hope of His resurrection.
This Holy Week, perhaps we can return, even briefly, to that childhood lesson: to be still because the Lord is still in the tomb. In that stillness, we may hear again what the noise of everyday life often drowns out — that we are loved beyond measure, and that this week is a gift, not to be spent, but to be sanctified.
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