I started my morning walk today at around 6:30am. Walking has slowly become part of my daily routine these past few weeks. There’s something about the quiet of the morning that allows you to think more clearly… or sometimes realize how unclear your mind actually is.

I brought with me the usual things: my phone, earbuds, and my rosary. I also have a small roster of podcasts I listen to during my walks, and this morning I tuned into a talk by Jeff Cavins about eating, exercising, and spiritual life.

But to be honest, I was barely paying attention at first.

As I walked, my mind kept wandering. I would replay random scenes in my head, look at shadows on the street, greet neighbors, talk to a cat along the way, and of course, avoid the occasional surprises left on the sidewalk.

It was only during the last few minutes of the podcast that I finally became still enough to really listen. And three ideas caught my attention.

First: knowledge must be trained into the body and the will.

Second: knowledge must become action, not remain as mere information.

And third: access to truth is not the same as transformation.

That last point stayed with me.

Many people fall into the trap of knowing but not doing. I fall into that trap myself. Sometimes knowledge becomes a kind of fortress. We convince ourselves that because we understand something intellectually, we have already lived it. But understanding is not the same as practice.

In fact, it is only when we seriously attempt to live out the truth that we realize how far we still are from becoming the kind of person that truth demands us to be.

I ended my walk with breakfast at Tropical Hut, but one thought stayed with me the entire morning:

The purpose of knowledge is not simply to make us more intelligent, but to move us toward action.

Because knowledge, after all, is measured not by how much we know, but by how much it changes the way we live.

Fr. Serge reminds us that at its heart, service is love. For married persons, this is not abstract—it is lived daily. The work we do for our families, the sacrifices we make as husbands, wives, fathers, and mothers—these are not merely responsibilities, but concrete expressions of love.

In this light, true life is service.

We see this reflected even in nature: everything exists in a kind of self-giving. The grass feeds the animals, the animals sustain human life. Creation itself follows a pattern of offering. In the same way, we are called to live not for ourselves, but for others.

This is why Fr. Serge says that life is Eucharistic at its core. Like the bread in the Eucharist, life finds its meaning in being “broken” and given. In the celebration of the Eucharist, especially in the breaking of the bread, we are invited to remember: someone has given himself for me. And we are asked to “do this” — to live likewise.

Marriage, then, becomes a profound sign of this reality. It is a sacrament of God’s love—where each spouse gives himself or herself totally to the other, mirroring the total self-giving within the Trinity.

Yet difficulties arise when we begin to withhold ourselves, when we resist the call to serve. For the natural fruit of love is service, and it is precisely in self-gift that we find fulfillment. A husband or wife becomes most fully himself or herself not in self-preservation, but in self-donation.

Still, this kind of love is not something we can sustain by our own strength alone. This is why Jesus Christ came to dwell among us—so that we might love through Him and with Him.

When we pray, “Lord, how can we love more?” we must be prepared: the answer often leads us to sacrifice. For the way of the Master is the way of the Cross. And yet, it is precisely there—through grace, through union with Christ—that we discover the fullness of love and the true meaning of service.

My journey over the past few months has led me to a deeper realization: people who are wounded in spirit do not easily change, and it is not our role to change them. That belongs to God’s grace.

Yet they are not without purpose. They can become doorways that lead us closer to God—opportunities to practice kindness, understanding, and patience, while remaining steadfast in the truth.

When we choose to encounter even the toxic, the dishonest, and the mean-spirited with this disposition, something within us is transformed.

We woke up at 4:30 a.m. today for the Chrism Mass at Cubao Cathedral. It’s the Mass where the bishop consecrates the Sacred Chrism and blesses the Oils of the Sick and Catechumens.

The Cathedral, dedicated to the Immaculate Conception, is majestic—blue and gold with touches of red all around.

After the two-hour Mass, we had breakfast at Buttery & Co. with heads of different ministries, priests, and the former bishop of Cubao.

They said it was the only restaurant open in the area. Good for them—they captured the market. It made me think: opening during a holiday like Holy Week is a test of your brand. If you’re the only one open and people come, it means your business is needed. But if you open and no one comes, then maybe you’re not that relevant to your market.

After lunch, we went home to rest and do a few chores. Later on, I spontaneously decided to visit my cousin who works at Petron Starbucks along NLEX. We stayed there for a couple of hours until the sky turned fiery.

Golden hour felt like a small celebration. Families were in the parking lot having picnics—talking, laughing, just enjoying each other’s company. I thought it was very Filipino. Simple, practical, and meaningful—saving money while spending time together.

On the way home, I took the Marilao exit. Ingrid mentioned that a friend lives nearby. We thought of dropping by, but since it’s a solemn day, we didn’t want to disturb them. Instead, we went to Christ the King to pray. Since I still had some energy, we visited a few more churches, although we weren’t able to complete the Bisita Iglesia because I was already tired.

Thinking about it, I spent hours inside the car—talking with Ingrid, sharing stories, even venting a bit. Somehow, the car became our own quiet space of prayer—a kind of Garden of Gethsemane—where God listens to our thoughts, worries, and hopes.

Today felt like Maundy Thursday unfolding throughout the day—from the Eucharist, to sharing a meal, to moments of prayer even inside the car, and the journey from one place to another.

I journeyed with Christ, not in the usual way, but in a way that brought the sacred into ordinary moments.

The darkness and silence between the crucifixion and the resurrection were filled with confusion and uncertainty for the disciples. That darkness was blinding, and the silence was deafening—not just in intensity, but in the loss of clarity and meaning. They could no longer make sense of what had happened.

In life, we experience similar moments. There are situations we simply cannot understand—realities that disturb us and challenge our sense of what is right or reasonable. Like the story shared by Fr. Cancino: an 86-year-old mother searching for her drug-addicted son, eventually finding him in a jeepney parking area. When the son refused to go home, the mother chose instead to stay with him, even sleeping there by his side.

Faced with this, we naturally form different opinions. Some may see it as enabling. Others may see it as heroic love. The situation resists easy judgment. It places us in a kind of darkness—where clarity escapes us and certainty is out of reach.

The same can be said of more difficult and uncomfortable realities: a whitewasher—someone who hides another’s faults by presenting a falsely positive image, making them appear better than they truly are. It becomes even more perplexing when this distortion comes from within the family itself, when a relative tells these untruths to their own loved ones. Here too, we are confronted with situations that resist easy explanation or resolution, where love itself can seem distorted and unclear.

And it is precisely in this kind of darkness and silence—where God seems absent and understanding fails—that faith invites us to a deeper stance. Not immediate answers, but trust. Not clarity, but presence.

Holy Saturday teaches us this: even when we cannot see or explain what is happening, God is not absent. He is at work in ways hidden from us. The silence is not empty, and the darkness is not without meaning. It may not yet be revealed—but it is not without purpose.