Contemplations: Holy Week
Hey Friends,
It’s been a minute. I’m writing this on the edge of something.
Tomorrow, I go into surgery. Nothing dramatic about how I’m saying that. Just the truth of it.
It has a way of clearing things out. You start to see what matters. And what never really did.
Holy Week feels different this year. Less like a story.
More like a mirror. A path I walk alone. Truly alone. Not many share my faith. And that’s okay.
Palm Sunday
I’ve had moments in my life where things felt like they were turning.
What felt like momentum. Seemed like recognition. What I thought was movement.
People showing up. Voices saying your name.
And I’ve lived long enough now to know how quickly that can shift.
How fast “Hosanna” becomes silence. Or worse.
If you’ve been through estrangement… if you’ve had people you love walk away… or shut the door without explanation… you understand something about this week most people don’t.
If you feel like I’ve done that to you, then perhaps you’ll understand me better, but I doubt it.
Crowds are easy, I know how to blend in. Love that stays is not. Love that sticks around and stands out is rare.
Early in the Week
Jesus starts pushing on things. Systems. Assumptions. People who were comfortable.
I’ve done some of that in my life. Not always well.
But, I think, honestly?
And here’s what I’ve learned at 52:
There are people who cannot help themselves.
They push boundaries. Insert themselves into what isn’t theirs.
Control what they were never asked to hold.
Not because they’re evil. Because they’re afraid.
And fear has a way of disguising itself as authority.
Holy Week exposes that. Not just out there. In us too.
Living in a Neurodivergent Mind
I don’t experience this week like a clean timeline.
Not that you asked, or even care.
For me, and others like me,it loops. It layers. It intensifies.
Moments don’t pass. They stack.
Conversations replay. Emotions stay longer than people expect them to.
If you’re wired like this, you know. You don’t skim life. You absorb it.
And sometimes that’s a gift. Sometimes it’s a weight.
Thursday
I see a table. A Mikdash Me'at.
I think about the people who sat there. Imperfect, confused, and like me, sometimes, defensive.
Loved anyway. And I think about my own life.
The people I would have done anything for. The people who are no longer in the room.
Children who have stepped away. Silence where there used to be connection.
No clean answers. No simple resolution. Just the ache of it.
Henri Nouwen once said that love reveals itself most clearly in powerlessness.
I understand that now in a way I didn’t before.
You can’t force relationship. You can’t argue someone into staying. You can only love.
And sometimes… that love is not returned. And that just the end of it, forever.
Friday
This is where the story stops pretending.
Loss is loss. Death is death.
There’s no reframing it in the moment. I’ve had versions of this Friday in my life.
Grief. Estrangement. Moments where something ended and didn’t come back.
And one of the hardest truths I’ve learned is this: Life is not always fair.
It’s not clean. Not resolved. People leave. People misunderstand. People choose distance.
And you don’t always get a say in that. You aren’t given a choice, and all you can do is respect and pray.
The Stations
I think about the Stations of the Cross.
Not as so much as a ritual. But as reality.
Step by step.
Carrying something heavy. Falling. Getting back up. Being misunderstood. Being helped by unexpected people. Being seen by a few who don’t turn away.
That’s not just his story. That’s life. At least it has been mine.
Saturday
The deafening quiet. The silence on the morning after the Dark Night of the Soul.
This might be the hardest part. No one has answers.
There is no movement. Just the pain of waiting.
I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to think my way out of that space.
Trying to fix it. Solve it. Make it make sense.
But some things don’t resolve on command. Some things just sit there.
And you learn to sit with them. Or you don’t.
The Mystical Part
There’s something deeper in this week that I don’t fully understand.
But I’ve brushed up against it enough to trust it.
Death is not always the end of something. Sometimes it’s the end of what couldn’t continue.
What was unsustainable. What was false. What had run its course.
And resurrection… it doesn’t bring things back the way they were.
It brings something new. Something quieter. Hopefully stronger.
Less dependent on approval or outcome.
What I’ve Learned
At 52, I don’t have clean answers.
But I have a few things that feel true: You can love people deeply and still lose them.
You can do your best and still be misunderstood. You can carry things that no one else sees. And still keep going.
You don’t need everyone to understand you to be at peace.
Boundaries matter. Silence can be honest.
And sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is let go.
The Work Still Unfolding
I’ve written a lot over the years. More than I ever thought I would.
Books that came out of recovery. Out of deep grief.
Out of trying to make sense of things that didn’t make sense.
Some of those are making their way to Audible now. That matters to me.
I’m grateful for it. Not because it proves anything.
But because it means something that started in pain
found its way into words and is still moving.
And there’s a novel I’ve been working on… on and off… for twenty years.
I’m in the editing phase now. Which feels like its own kind of Holy Week.
Letting go of what doesn’t belong. Holding onto what does. Trusting that something worth finishing is still there.
Right Now
Tonight, I feel reflective. Not afraid exactly.
Just aware. Aware of what has been. Aware of what I cannot control.
Aware of what I still care about.
Holy Week doesn’t fix everything. But it tells the truth. And reminds me of the One who dwells with me, in all of it.
This week is about suffering. About love. About loss. And about the quiet possibility… that something is still unfolding even when it looks like everything has stopped.
That’s enough for now.
For what it’s worth.
Shalom,
Jeremy E.
Beautifully written. Your words soothe my soul, even though you share pain. It feels so real. Thank you.
Wonderful post. What is your in-progress novel about?