When Holy Week Didn’t Go as Planned (and Still Meant Something)

I had a vision for Holy Week this year.

Not perfect—but intentional. Present. Meaningful.

But if I’m being honest… that was already a stretch.

Because my husband and I are both in ministry. And Holy Week, for us, doesn’t just mean reflecting—it means leading, planning, showing up, and pouring out in ways that are full and beautiful… but also exhausting.

So before the week even began, we were already in it.

Long, full days. A lot of responsibility. A lot of giving.

And still, I hoped to feel it all too.

Before Holy Week officially started, we celebrated in our own way.

An Easter basket. An egg hunt. A little early joy, because sometimes you take the moment when you can get it. It wasn’t traditional timing—but it was ours.

Then Palm Sunday came—and I got to give the children’s message.

One of those moments that feels small on paper but carries weight when you’re in it. Helping kids understand the beginning of the story. Watching their faces connect to something bigger.

It was one of those “this is why I love what I do” moments.

And then the week kept going.

I made it to a sound meditation service—quiet, still, grounding.

We kept working full days. We kept showing up.

Trying to hold space for the meaning of the week… while also helping create it for others.

And then—We got sick.

Not completely knocked out, but enough to change everything.

Plans shifted.

Energy disappeared.

And the version of Holy Week I thought I’d have… just wasn’t possible anymore.

And that part was hard.

Because when you spend the week helping others experience something meaningful… you kind of hope to experience it fully too.

But here’s the thing…Holy Week didn’t stop.

It just looked different.

We watched The Chosen curled up on the couch, not feeling our best—but still stepping into the story in a way that met us where we were.

We spent more time in the quiet than we planned.

Not structured.

Not polished.

Just… quiet.

The kind that comes when your body makes the decision for you.

But even in the middle of that, there were glimpses of something more.

One day, we made it outside. Sunshine on our faces. Fresh air. A moment that felt like a deep breath in the middle of everything else.

And in another moment, I found myself explaining the meaning and importance of Good Friday to someone.

Not from a stage. Not in a planned teaching moment.

Just… in real life.

And it hit me—this counts too.

Because maybe Holy Week isn’t about how much we do.

And for those of us in ministry… maybe it’s also not about how perfectly we balance doing and feeling. Maybe it’s about what we’re willing to carry… and what we’re willing to receive in the middle of it.

And this year, I found myself sitting with:

Slowness. Disruption. Fatigue. Grace.

And somehow, even in the middle of serving, sickness, and shifting plans…

God still showed up.

I think sometimes we treat Holy Week like something we need to execute well.

Like if we attend everything, feel everything, and stay fully focused the entire time—then we’ve done it “right.”

But this year reminded me:

Jesus still walked to the cross. Jesus still rose again.

Even when I was sick.

Even when I was tired.

Even when my participation didn’t look the way I hoped it would.

Even when my role was more about leading than reflecting.

Holy Week didn’t lose its meaning just because I couldn’t experience it the way I planned. If anything… it met me right in the middle of it. And that’s what I keep coming back to.

Easter still came.

Not because everything went according to plan.Not because I experienced the week perfectly. Not because I balanced ministry and personal reflection flawlessly.

But because that’s who God is.

Steady. Present. Faithful.

Even in the middle of long days, leadership, early celebrations, unexpected sickness, quiet moments, sunshine breaks, and unplanned conversations…

God was still there.

And maybe that’s the reminder I needed most this year:You don’t have to experience Holy Week perfectly for it to change you.