The Night Was Long, But Love Stayed Awake

   

Palm Sunday of the Lord's Passion

13 April 2025

 

First Reading: Isaiah 50:4-7

Responsorial Psalm: Psalm 22:8-9, 17-18, 19-20, 23-24

Second Reading: Philippians 2:6-11

Gospel: Luke 23:1-49

 

Reflection

By: Theresa B. Manio

 

There was a time in my life when the nights felt impossibly long—like time stood still, and I was stuck inside a silence that echoed too loudly. I remember lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling a kind of ache that words couldn’t hold. During the day, everything seemed normal. I was functioning, productive, even smiling. But when the world went quiet, the shadows came back. I felt like I was living a double life—guilt creeping in for pretending I was okay when, deep down, I wasn’t.

PTSD had wrapped itself around me like a heavy fog. I couldn’t find a way out. I hurt in ways no one could see. Sometimes, I hurt myself—just trying to feel something, or maybe to match the chaos inside. I didn’t understand why I was going through it. I felt broken. Ashamed. Alone.

And then I read again the story of Jesus’ own darkest night. In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus is betrayed, abandoned by His closest friends, mocked, beaten, and condemned for a crime He didn’t commit. In the garden, He falls to the ground and prays, overwhelmed to the point of sweating blood. But He stays. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t numb the pain. He doesn’t give in to despair. He simply whispers, “Not my will, but Yours be done,” and walks into the suffering with open eyes and a wide-open heart.

My pain might not compare to His—but in His story, I saw mine. Not dismissed, not minimized—understood.

For a long time, I wondered why God allowed everything that happened to me. Why didn’t He stop the pain or fix me right away? But as I sat with this Gospel, I started to realize: Sometimes, God doesn’t take the suffering away. Sometimes, He joins us in it. Sometimes, He stays up with us through the long nights, just to let us know we’re not alone.

I was 20 when I attended a retreat that changed everything. I remember finally speaking my truth in confession—my wounds, my sins, my fears—and I’ll never forget what the priest gently said: “Jesus was with you. He sees your suffering. He was there. He just couldn’t make it stop, because He can’t control people’s actions.”

That moment broke something open in me. I hadn’t realized it before, but Jesus was with me. In every tear. In every silent scream. Every night I thought I wouldn't survive. He never turned away. He stayed.

And now—on the other side of that long, dark night—I see something I didn’t recognize before. The wounds didn’t destroy me. They deepened me. They gave me a heart that can recognize pain in others and sit with them in it. Because I’ve been there. Because I know what it’s like. And because Jesus stayed with me, I now have the strength to stay with someone else.

That’s what the cross does. It doesn’t erase our pain. But it transforms it. It turns our deepest wounds into bridges of compassion. It turns our brokenness into love.

I don’t have all the answers. But I know this: No matter how long the night is—Love stays awake. Love keeps watch. Love whispers, “You are not alone.”

If you’re reading this and you're hurting, please hold on. You are seen. You are loved. And you are not alone in your pain. Jesus is with you—and so are many others who’ve walked through the fire and are still here, reaching back to walk with you. Look at Jesus on the cross. You’re still here. And that means hope is, too.

Prayer

Jesus, stay with me in the silence, in the heaviness, in the nights that feel too long. Remind me that even in my deepest pain, I am never alone because You stayed awake for love. I will wait with You in the darkness, trusting that just as You rose, Your light will rise in me too. Amen.