It begins with Palm Sunday, the echo of a king’s welcome. Crowds once waved palm branches, shouting “Hosanna!” unaware that this king rode not a warhorse, but a humble donkey. It’s a day of joy that holds the shadow of sacrifice.

From Monday to Wednesday, silence settles in. These are the days of preparation — not just of rituals, but of the heart. Churches dim their lights. Scriptures speak of betrayal, loyalty, and last teachings. In the hush, we hear our own need for grace.

Then comes Maundy Thursday, the night of the Last Supper. Bread is broken. Feet are washed. Jesus bends low to serve those who would flee, doubt, even deny Him. It is a night soaked in tenderness and human frailty.

Good Friday is heavy. The cross rises. The world darkens. The sky weeps. And yet — love speaks loudest here. In suffering, we find meaning. In death, we recognize the heartbeat of redemption.

Holy Saturday is still. The tomb is sealed. The world waits. It’s the in-between place — between sorrow and joy, between fear and faith. And in that pause, we are asked: Do we believe in dawn after darkness?

Holy Week is not just a memory — it is a mirror. It reflects our doubts, our hopes, and our longing for resurrection in all the broken parts of our lives. And when Easter comes, it does not arrive quietly. It bursts in with life, light, and the promise of something greater than we dared imagine.