There is no pain, no suffering—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual—that was not experienced by our Lord during this time we call Holy Week, even the ultimate pain of abandonment by God. Beginning on Holy Thursday until the arrival of Easter vigil, we witness the spectacle of a story we can never remember having learned. It is knowledge we were born with, acid-etched in the human soul from its origin. All the tragedies and heartbreaks we will ever bear, our physical pain, our despair, have their reference point there, in the Way of the Cross. No wonder we flee from it.

  During Lent, we made little sacrifices of pleasures or comforts, a tradition of “practicing” for Holy Week. But we silently say to ourselves,This isn’t it, this isn’t anything like it. And of course, it isn’t. And so, here it is now, and whatever acts of charity we performed during Lent, whatever little sacrifices we made, it’s not enough. We’re not prepared. Why? Because something happens to experience as a group, within a tradition or liturgy: It gets de-personalized, becomes abstract.

  A week ago today, I had some frightening news as a result of a routine medical test. Further tests were needed. For five days and nights, I lived in fear, until Tuesday morning, when I heard, “It’s okay. See you next year.” I’m 71. I’d been there before, and God willing, I’ll be there again. But this time was different. Normally, one fights fear. One doesn’t give in to it. One wants to pray and then let it go—as my aunt has described it, “like mailing a letter.” That’s the rational approach, the grown-up way, the right attitude, and it was my first response.

  But I couldn’t make that “work” this time. I mean that it did not bring the expected peace, the relief from an agony of anxiety and aloneness that it should have brought to a rational, grown-up person of faith. Why not? Well, I don’t know. I just know that, for whatever reason, the letter would not be mailed. Maybe it was my weakness, or maybe it was a very rough grace, and maybe not knowing which is actually the roughest part of that grace….

  Tonight, the priest will wash my feet. I’ve done that once before, with the standard-issue slight embarrassment and determination to participate in liturgy I revere. And after Mass, I will follow the Blessed Sacrament with others into the chapel of repose, accompanying our Lord. There I’ll give thanks for Holy Thursday, for weakness, and for rough grace.