Sunday, there’d been the crowning, the waving of the palms.
Tuesday, the conflict, the plotting of the Pharisee.
Then come Thursday — there would be the communion, the breaking of the bread.
And Friday, the crucifixion, the hanging of the impossible dead.
And at no point could anyone have imagined the confusion of Saturday or the culmination of Sunday.
Wednesday, the calm, the calm, the silence of the Christ.
There’s no record of what Christ did on the Wednesday of Holy Week. Did He pray on Wednesday?
Did He go up on a mountainside and watch the sky and feel the blood in his veins, the air in his lungs, the weight of the world bearing down?
Did He prepare quietly for suffering on Wednesday because He knew: the quieter you are, the more grace you hear.
Because He knew —
means stop trying to achieve great things…
and simply receive grace.
The Wednesday of Holy Week, it comes quiet and stilled. The clouds lie low. There are prayers.
The fuel of public service is always ignited by private communion with God.
Waiting for a son on Wednesday afternoon, every act of patience this learning to wait on God, there is Christ too in the silent middle of Holy Week —
there with the patience of God.