Holy Week (Pt.4)
Written on 2025 Apr 26th.
This article shares a personal spiritual journey—not to promote miracles or judge anyone, but to remember what God has done in my life.
Because it involves others’ privacy, if you choose to read it, please do so with reverence, and pray for me and the people mentioned.
On Saturday morning, it rained several times in a row.
I began writing this journal, recording everything that had happened during Holy Week.
After some internal struggle, I decided that I would document the details—without exposing anyone’s privacy.
This journal touches on three sensitive areas: the privacy of interpersonal relationships, the interpretation of spiritual experiences, and my personal sense of calling.
I believe that in spiritual literature, none of these can be evaded under the pretense of modesty.
Somehow, writing had become for me a commission from heaven.
If I did not record it truthfully, I would be betraying the light and revelation that God had entrusted to me.
I discussed my swirling thoughts with ChatGPT, trying to piece together Tina’s psychological logic from a trauma-informed perspective.
By afternoon, for reasons I could not explain, I suddenly had the courage to calmly revisit her past words—
those barbed mockeries, subtle denials, and blame-shifting cloaked in banter.
I analyzed them line by line.
Even though I couldn’t help muttering “garbage,” “offspring of vipers” under my breath, I knew my condemnation was aimed at the darkness within her humanity,
not at her personhood.
I could feel an unwavering and crystal-clear sense of authority within myself.
No emotional manipulation, no verbal games could flatten, dramatize, or obscure me anymore.
At that moment, I received a long voice message from the Zimbabwean sister. She poured out sincere praise, blessings, and encouragement.
It was like a confirmation directly from God, reaffirming that I must finish writing this journal.
During grace before dinner, I playfully prayed to the Lord:
“Why don’t You find a way to help Tina?
Maybe send her a dream and scold her for me—
Just call her an ‘offspring of vipers,’ that would be enough.”
In that moment, I felt as if none of it mattered anymore—
and yet a faint, misty loneliness settled over me.
Not merely because of the rupture of a relationship, but because everything that had unfolded this week was something I could hardly explain to anyone—
and even if I did, few could truly understand.
In the group chat, I shared the song Do Not Stand, hoping that someone—anyone other than Tina—might feel what I did:
that the song was sung from Christ’s perspective, to the women weeping at His tomb.
That night, before sleeping,
I prayed to the Lord:
“I think it’s about time You let my future husband come find me…”
On Sunday, Easter, that sense of authority still burned strong.
Among the packages from China, there was a particularly beautiful silk scarf—an Easter gift I had prepared for the pastor’s wife.
On the attached card, there was a Chinese poem about love, which I translated into English by hand in the blank space.
I knew she would love this gift. Just the thought made me brim with joy.
I attended the last Easter service. At the church entrance, I ran into the senior pastor who had preached the previous Sunday.
Overjoyed, I told him how much I loved his sermon, that he had preached with the power of Gandalf.
He laughed heartily, delighted.
This week’s sermon was led by the head pastor and his wife, retelling the story of Christ’s resurrection with more passion and hope than usual.
At the end, the congregation burst into joyful praise, the festive atmosphere reaching its peak.
Lord, only You know what lies hidden inside the hearts of those of us singing so loudly—what hides beneath pious appearances, behind habitual self-deceptions.
The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.
If among these crowds there is even one soul whose weakness You reveal to me,
I am willing to bring that weakness before You, to plead and reason with You, to ask for Your healing.
Because they have been conquered by the Risen One—and that alone is the source of all my courage.
I stood in an inconspicuous spot, small and easily overlooked. No one paid much attention to me.
But between each soul here and myself, Christ and His Church stood as the bridge.
After the service, I bumped into a few fellowship members. I cautiously hinted that the once-in-a-century natural disaster might have been a spiritual battle echoing into the physical world.
To my surprise, each one seemed to receive it with grace, even blessing and encouraging me.
When I handed the Easter gift to the pastor’s wife, I was nearly hopping with excitement.
She opened the envelope, read through the translated poem—Yes, she loved it. She was so joyful.
And I finally felt the burden of guilt I had carried toward the lead pastors lift from my heart.
God had been so good to me. He had appointed for me, in my first official church home, the best shepherds possible.
Afterwards, I joined the church’s lunch bunch.
Tina was there too.
She seemed low-spirited, her smiles visibly forced.
During the icebreaker, we randomly drew the same verse from different Gospels.
When it came time to match the context, I didn’t even want to acknowledge what she said.
Even though at home I had imagined myself embracing her, seeing her in person only reignited my disappointment.
While lining up for buffet lunch, she quietly lined up behind me. Trying to break the awkwardness, I joked:
“Did you have any nightmares last night?”
“No.”
“Pity. I asked the Lord to send you a dream and scold you.'”
She forced a tight laugh: “Hmph. No dream.”
Later, I found myself sitting across from her at a table. Coincidentally, a guy nearby, who had previously made a joking threat toward me, sat beside me.
Annoyed, I moved to a different table.
After the meal, I chatted with others. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tina leaning against a wall, asking someone to pray for her.
I didn’t know what she was trying to express. But it was clear she hadn’t yet resolved her own shame.
After lunch, I left with a young American girl. Parting ways, I walked home alone, my mind circling endlessly around Tina’s state.
I realized: I didn’t like the sense of “superiority” that came with being the stronger one.
I wanted to take a gamble.
On my phone, I drafted a message to her.
I didn’t want to lie and say I wasn’t angry. But I also wanted her to know: I was still looking at her with spiritual eyes, still praying for her, still standing watch.
At the end, I attached a photo of the handwritten note that came with the gift, asking lightly what she thought of it—offering her a way to step down gracefully.
This was the furthest I could reach toward her, the final step.
All the choices beyond that would be hers.
And I was free.
That Easter night, I fell asleep holding the last of the custom keychains—the one I had kept for myself:
The emblem of the Moravian Brethren—the Lamb of God bearing the victory banner, surrounded by the inscription:
“Our Lamb has conquered; let us follow Him.”
Holy Week had ended. And I saw clearly that the timid, injustice-enduring, man-pleasing “old self” within me—was truly dead.
I had lived out the glory of God—like a bone china bead sewn onto the robe of Christ Himself.
I knew: this maturity, this resilience, did not come from the grand flood or the storms that had “elevated” me—
but from one simple truth:
“Our Lamb has conquered; let us follow Him.”
Epilogue
This Holy Week was my spiritual coming-of-age— a spiritual surgery.
God had cut away the festering parts of me, so that new life could begin to grow—pure and unstained—after Easter.
The first week after Holy Week was the postoperative pain. The sense of authority hadn’t completely disappeared, but it no longer numbed me to pain.
For three days, I stayed home, writing this journal, daydreaming and bargaining childishly with God to distract myself from the aching.
On Wednesday night, during our group gathering, I received a rose.
Only later did I realize it was Sant Jordi—Spain’s Valentine’s Day.
In the midst of loss, I tasted humility— a gentle pruning by the Holy Spirit.
During the intercession time, I couldn’t hold back anymore.
I choked up.
Though I said little, others sensed the pressure I carried and showed me kindness.
That night, the unspeakable grievances—the flood victims, the sixty lost lives—crushed me.
At dawn, I opened the group chat, asking for prayer:
“Please pray that God would ease the pain in my heart,
clarify my calling,
and prepare true companions for me.”
On Thursday, I curled up in bed almost all morning, crying as I slowly accepted the reality:
I had stepped into a new phase of life—though I knew almost nothing about it.
I began to reexamine my faith journey from childhood, to confront the statistical rarity and the stunning precision of the divine orchestration behind it.
Because I had lived through it personally, it felt too familiar, too easy to miss its extraordinariness.
But now, I must face it:
I am not merely one of God’s beloved little children—
I am also entrusted with His calling.
That afternoon, I met for coffee with a group member—a non-Christian, but open-hearted. I told her about the spiritual battle behind the flood. She listened, encouraged me, and suggested I connect more with others and share my writing publicly.
That evening, in the Thursday spiritual fellowship group, I finally cried freely without fear.
On Friday morning, I woke up to a heart that was clear again—almost childishly fearless.
Six months ago, when I realized I could no longer engage in any work unrelated to the Gospel, I had panicked.
But now, I had calmly accepted it: my life would be lived working alongside God,
serving for His Kingdom to come, His will to be done.
I checked WeChat, still no response from Tina.
It didn’t matter anymore. I had laid it down completely. I would no longer invest my heart in her.
Only…it was a pity about that beautiful custom keychain.