God speaks in many ways.
Through a priest.
A friend.
A quiet conversation.
A line from Scripture.
Even words written on a jeepney.
Even a song.
Yesterday, my friend and I attended the Good Friday liturgy. One part of it was the veneration of the cross, what we call Pahalik sa Krus in the Philippines.
But this time, it was different.
There were no dramatizations.
No elaborate reenactments.
Just a quiet, almost bare upper room.
Simple. Still. Sacred.
The cross was not grand. Not towering. Just enough for the priest to lift and slowly unveil.
And then he said:
“Honor Him however your culture does it.”
One by one, people came forward.
Some bowed.
Some knelt.
Some simply touched the cross.
When it was my turn, I already knew.
I knelt.
And I kissed His feet.
Right there, I brought everything.
The pain I still carry.
The trauma I cannot fully name.
The triggers I try to manage.
The worries I cannot fix.
The parts of me I cannot change on my own.
I laid them all at His feet.
Some people might say it’s just wood.
But I know what happened on that wood.
For me, it is where heaven touched my brokenness.
And something shifted.
I cannot fully explain it.
But I felt His presence move through me.
From my lips…
to my chest…
to my whole body.
And then the choir began to sing.
Holy darkness, blessed night
Heaven’s answer hidden from my sight…
As we await you, O God of silence
We embrace your holy night.
And that was it.
The tears came.
Not gentle tears.
Not quiet tears.
They came like waves.
I was sobbing. My shoulders were shaking. I tried to control it, but I couldn’t.
So I stopped trying.
I let my tears worship Him.
And in that moment, I realized something I did not want to admit:
I am still hurting.
I want to forgive.
But the wound feels open.
I want to love without counting the cost.
But it feels too heavy.
How do you forgive…
when the same people keep hurting you…
and never acknowledge it?
How do you love…
when it feels one-sided?
How do you stay kind…
when everything in you wants to protect yourself?
And there, in the silence, came the answer I didn’t want, but needed:
This is the way of the cross.
It was never meant to be easy.
This morning, I read a reflection that struck me deeply:
“Because the circle is perfect and infinite by nature, yet its dimensions remain fixed over time: it can never be larger or smaller.
But the cross, even though it contains a collision and a contradiction at its center, can extend its four arms forever without altering its shape.
Because it holds a paradox at its core, it can grow without changing. The circle is destined to return upon itself.
The cross opens its arms to the four winds; it is a sign for free travelers.”
— G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy
The circle is perfect, but it stays the same.
The cross holds tension, contradiction, pain…
yet it expands.
The cross stretches outward.
It opens.
It grows.
And I realized…
Growth in faith will always involve tension.
Love will always involve sacrifice.
Forgiveness will always cost something.
Then came the question that pierced straight through me:
What do I choose to do freely for someone else… even if it causes me pain?
No excuses.
No justification.
Just truth.
And honestly?
I don’t have a perfect answer yet.
Because this is still my wrestling.
Forgiveness.
Humility.
Love.
Kindness.
Generosity.
These are not things I can force on my own.
Not when pride is loud.
Not when pain is fresh.
Not when justice feels unmet.
I need grace.
Daily grace.
When I listened to the song again, the line hit even deeper:
In your deepest hour of darkness
I will give you wealth untold
When the silence stills your spirit
Will my riches fill your soul
That is the promise.
Not immediate answers.
Not instant healing.
But presence.
A quiet, steady presence in the darkness.
So here I am.
Still in the holy darkness.
Still waiting.
Still wrestling.
Still learning how to let go.
But choosing to stay.
Choosing to trust.
Choosing to bring everything, again and again, to the feet of the cross.
Because maybe that is the real transformation.
Not that everything becomes easy.
But that even in the dark…
we do not walk away.
My prayer is simple:
Lord, teach me how to forgive when it hurts.
Teach me how to love when it costs.
Teach me how to empty myself so You can fill me.
Take every burden, every pain, every wound.
And consume it in Your light.
Until even the darkest parts of me…
learn how to trust You.
I don’t have all the answers.
But in this holy darkness,
I will wait.
And I will trust that the God of silence
is still working…
even when I cannot see.
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