Holy Week (Pt.3)
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 Thursday, I couldn’t help but keep rereading the letter on my phone, trying to sense, from a third-person perspective, whether my words were powerful enough to stir a soul.
Even though I knew very well—it was a rare letter: a high-level spiritual rebuke, written with clarity in the midst of deep emotional pain.
Still, I didn’t check whether she had replied. I couldn’t bring myself to care.
By noon, I could no longer bear letting this matter occupy my mind. Outside, the spring sunlight was too beautiful to waste. I decided I must seize the moment and go out.
I packed up and brought the new kite I had bought, heading to a nearby seaside town.
From the bustling station to sunlit streets, it was the first time I faced this rich world alone—as a newly remade self.
It didn’t feel like confidence so much as a profound inner coherence.
The deep blue sky melted into the sea, countless colorful parasails danced on the waves, fighting the wind. Waves rolled onto the golden shore, sculpting and erasing endlessly.
The weather app said the wind speed was 23 km/h, but standing by the sea, it felt far stronger. If the kite got blown away, it would be a real loss.
The beach wasn’t crowded, but it was lively enough—full of a vacation-like air.
I sat on a swing, watching the children playing nearby. The strong wind seemed to wipe away every passerby’s worries—and mine too.
The gusts buffeted my head like a giant towel, wiping it clean again and again.
In the end, I never took the kite out of my tote bag. Near 6 PM, I decided to visit the town’s cathedral.
I sat on a bench in the small square outside, watching the leisurely people enjoying their beautiful, ordinary lives—lives that, perhaps, were quietly blessed by God.
When the church bells chimed on the hour, I stood up and entered.
Inside was a world of profound silence and peace. I lingered a moment at the entrance, gazing at the crucifix, then circled the sanctuary, carefully studying each mural, intimately familiar with every Gospel scene.
Finally, I returned to the crucifix and stood there, staring.
I couldn’t hold it in anymore—I needed to pray, and to pray kneeling.
I moved to the prayer bench, knelt down, clasped my hands, and bowed my head, whispering.
The rows of votive candles beside the crucifix flickered gently in the deepest darkness…
Abba Father,
though Tina’s way of survival runs completely counter to “loving others as oneself,”
I still do not believe she is a false Christian.
The tears and stirrings she feels before Christ—I believe they are genuine.
Her past admiration for me, her help—I believe they were sincere.
But when faith becomes a shield for one’s pride,
she mistook the wrapping as healing—
treating festering, ugly wounds as “maturity.”
What she truly needs is real brokenness and real repentance—
only then can those wounds be transformed into empathy and mercy toward others.
Only then can she learn to love as Christ commands.
Though I said I was willing to “catch her pain,”
I don’t actually know how.
For my own protection, I still reserve doubts about the authenticity of her faith.
But if You have forgiven her,
then I can forgive too.
If You have conquered her heart,
then everything I do is merely following in Your steps.
As for that once-in-a-century natural disaster, those extreme scenes…
I don’t know, I truly don’t know.
But this “vision” has given me a sense of authority that exceeds my old self.
If it really is connected to me—
then please reveal who I am,
and what my mission is.
I am willing to align my entire life with Your will.
The sky was still light, so I boarded a train to another seaside town—the one with my favorite, wild beach.
The sand there was fine and soft, sprouting with vines and grasses that stabilized the dunes.
I took out my kite, assembled it carefully, patiently untangled the reel of thread.
Standing with my back to the wind, I lifted the kite high—
and released it.
It soared straight up into the sky.
I wandered slowly along the beach. The waves kissed the sand fervently, then retreated, leaving behind flawless mirrors of deep blue.
Without realizing it, I let the thread slip further and further out—
until the little smiling face on the kite could barely be seen.
It floated far away,
tugged only by the wind,
suspended by a single fine thread,
with no birds flying nearby,
nothing else around.
As the sky darkened, the last traces of clear blue vanished.
I reeled the thread in little by little, packed up the kite, and walked toward the train station.
Suddenly, I remembered that I had never visited this town’s church before.
How strange—Tina and I had come here a few times, yet we had never set foot inside the church.
It was almost closing time, but I hurried over.
This was a small, plain town—no famous landmarks, not a tourist destination—and perhaps it was this hidden little church, tucked behind the trees, that carried all its tenderness and historical weight.
I slipped quietly into the church,catching the final moments of Mass from the last row.
A few people glanced back at me with gentle smiles.
There were very few sculptures here, mostly vast murals—and uniquely, they focused not on the Virgin Mary,
but fully on the promise made to all humanity.
As the Mass ended, the lights were extinguished one by one, until only a single small lamp on the altar remained—
keeping vigil for the whole town.
The sky was still light, so I boarded a train to another seaside town—the one with my favorite, wild beach.
The sand there was fine and soft, sprouting with vines and grasses that stabilized the dunes.
I took out my kite, assembled it carefully, patiently untangled the reel of thread.
Standing with my back to the wind, I lifted the kite high—
and released it.
It soared straight up into the sky.
I wandered slowly along the beach. The waves kissed the sand fervently, then retreated, leaving behind flawless mirrors of deep blue.
Without realizing it, I let the thread slip further and further out—
until the little smiling face on the kite could barely be seen.
It floated far away,
tugged only by the wind,
suspended by a single fine thread,
with no birds flying nearby,
nothing else around.
As the sky darkened, the last traces of clear blue vanished.
I reeled the thread in little by little, packed up the kite, and walked toward the train station.
Suddenly, I remembered that I had never visited this town’s church before.
How strange—Tina and I had come here a few times, yet we had never set foot inside the church.
It was almost closing time, but I hurried over.
This was a small, plain town—no famous landmarks, not a tourist destination—and perhaps it was this hidden little church, tucked behind the trees, that carried all its tenderness and historical weight.
I slipped quietly into the church,catching the final moments of Mass from the last row.
A few people glanced back at me with gentle smiles.
There were very few sculptures here, mostly vast murals—and uniquely, they focused not on the Virgin Mary,
but fully on the promise made to all humanity.
As the Mass ended, the lights were extinguished one by one, until only a single small lamp on the altar remained—
keeping vigil for the whole town.
The next morning, I woke up early—then fell asleep again, drifting in and out of heavy dreams all morning.
When I finally woke for good, I felt inexplicably unwell—exhausted and weighed down.
Unable to bear it, I stumbled up and vomited into the trash can.
Maybe it was dehydration from the strong sun and wind yesterday. Or maybe my soul had undergone such a great upheaval that my body struggled to catch up.
I was so tired. Too tired even to pray. So I asked for intercession in the group chat.
That day was Good Friday. That evening, I attended the church’s worship gathering.
When I arrived, the service had already begun. The space was small, everyone seated freely. I saw an empty chair right in the middle—very conspicuous.
As I moved toward it, I realized Tina was seated right next to it.
I lightly touched her arm, expressionless, and asked if the seat was taken.
She turned, her face lighting up slightly, and said I could sit there.
I sat down, back to her.
Most others were sitting on the floor; I, sitting upright on that lone chair, stood out.
As the worship progressed, my heart shifted—from receiving my own calling to feeling a burden for these people around me.
Not just Tina—but everyone in that room: the church staff, even the pastors.
During the final sharing time, I silently prayed:
“Lord, for every soul here that has been conquered by Christ,
I am willing to be responsible.
I am willing to bear their wounds—
even the ones they themselves do not yet understand—
and to plead with You for them.”
After the event, Tina smiled and said, “I’m heading out!” then effortlessly melted into social chatter.
I didn’t respond.
In fact, I felt nauseated.
I knew—she was still running away.
Maybe she had simply realized she had underestimated me. But she was still far from breaking free of the deeply ingrained survival logic she lived by.
Back home, I opened WeChat and found that she had never replied to my letter.
It didn’t matter.
I knew that once the seed of truth had been planted, it would grow—slowly, maybe painfully—
but it would never die.
It would stretch itself out, quietly,
twisting and breaking through the soil
until it finally saw the light.