Lingering on Holy Thursday

Holy Thursday has been my favorite day of Holy Week for as long as I can remember. I walk into Mass that evening almost giddy. There's something about coming together as a community in the middle of the week, just as the sun is setting, to begin the journey to Calvary and, ultimately, the empty tomb together.

This day is a personal favorite because there is so much to it. From the rich and beautiful history of the Passover to the establishment of the holy priesthood, the humble washing of the disciples' feet to the incredible gift of the Holy Eucharist, and ultimately, the agony in the garden and the betrayal of our Lord, all wrapped into one day.

There's a beautiful juxtaposition on this night between anticipation and dread, the not yet and the soon-to-be; the long-awaited and much-feared, a holy tension. And to be honest, sometimes it can be difficult to stay here. It's hard to be where we are in general, to not try to skip to the good parts or live in fear of what might be. It can feel even harder in the trenches of infertility. If I wasn't daydreaming about the moment when I was holding my baby, and it was finally over, I was actively dreading the next step: the next time I would have to take a pregnancy test, the next appointment, the next injection, the next baby shower. It was as if somehow by dreading it, I could protect my heart from the impending blow. Maybe you know this feeling, too.

The in-between is a tension that can sometimes feel almost physically painful. 

I can't help but think that throughout His life, especially on Holy Thursday, the Lord might have felt that same tension Himself. I imagine He was most likely anxious to save us and accomplish the Father's will, yet surely He dreaded the horrors of the cross. And yet, on this night of nights — before it all begins — we see how He handles this in-between and invites us to do the same. He doesn't rush ahead and certainly doesn't attempt to protect Himself or His heart (lest we forget, He washed Judas' feet too). If anything, He becomes more radically open to His Father's will, more trusting, and more vulnerable. He desires to love His Father and His friends in exactly the moment He has been given. The right now. Not the soon-to-be. And us? In our in-betweens, we're invited to imitate our teacher. 

It can be hard to seek God's will in moments of tension. When we wish we could skip to the good part and fast forward to our own moments of triumph and resurrection. Or when we're terrified of what shoe might drop next. When the longing feels like it could crush us, or the fear might drown us. When the in-between seems endless, it can be easy to be discouraged and seek Him in the future, instead of being where we are. But God can always be found in the present, with enough grace for today. 

On this Holy Thursday, we receive the invitation from the Lord to stay. To linger with Him in these most intimate moments. Not to rush ahead in fear to the pain of Good Friday, or skip all of it entirely for the joy of Easter Sunday. But to stay with Him, precisely where He is now. This Holy Thursday, ask Christ to show you where He wants you to linger with Him. There are so many rich places in Scripture where He can be found on this night. And I'm willing to bet there's one He has in mind, just for you. Perhaps you feel forgotten after another friend shares her joyful news, and you need to feel the water wash over your feet as He gently tends to your needs. Maybe the pain of years of loss and disappointment feels overwhelming, and you can only sit silently beside Him in the depths of His agony and grief, allowing His prayer to the Father to become your own. Maybe you don't know what you need so you watch as He fully gives Himself to you for the first time at the Last Supper. Dive deeply into just one piece of the day in Scripture and allow Him to speak to your heart. 

Wherever He leads you, friend, I invite you to stay: to be with Him precisely here, in the in-between. And while you're here in His in-between, ask Him for the first time, or maybe the five-hundredth time, to stay with you in yours.