As Holy Week unfolds, I find myself entering a kind of inner quiet. It’s something that happens almost automatically now, like a rhythm I’ve learned to live into. The air is different. Time slows down, and everything becomes a bit heavier, a bit more intense. I notice how the chapel smells more like beeswax and incense. I notice how my heart feels a little raw. Each day of Holy Week feels like it peels away another layer of distraction. The homilies, the hymns, the longer readings—they’re not just rituals to me. They feel like doorways. On Holy Thursday, when I heard the Twelve Gospels read and see the cross carried out, there was an ache in my chest that I can’t explain (no it wasn’t a heart attack). It’s like being reminded of both grief and hope at the same time, like standing in the tension of something ancient and immediate.
And today, the Great and Holy Friday. This day always undoes me. The silence in the church after the body of Christ is taken down from the Cross feels unlike anything else I experience all year. The solemnity, the gentle chanting, the way the icon of the body is carried and wrapped in linen—it’s all so physical, so tangible. It makes me think about love that endures pain, about how far God is willing to go to meet us in our worst.
By the time we get to Pascha, I’m worn thin in the best way. There’s a kind of exhaustion that feels sacred. Staying up through the night, holding a candle in the dark, singing “Christ is Risen” for the first time after so much waiting—it strikes differently every year, but it never fails to move me. There’s joy, yes, but also a kind of quiet awe, like I am stepping into something I’ll never fully grasp.
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The Eucharist is the cornerstone of our worship. It is more than just a ritual; it is the literal reenactment of the Last Supper, the moment when Christ instituted the sacrament of His body and blood. Catholics, Orthodox Christians, and even many Protestants hold this sacred act in deep reverence. Yet, in the wild world of modern, ungrounded worship, we have encountered an absurdity that can only be described as blasphemous: a church using Oreo cookies as communion bread.
In the quiet stillness of the hermitage, where my life is centered on prayer and reflection, the tools that guide me through study and contemplation, along with the Holy Spirit, are more than just books—they are companions on my continuing spiritual journey on this earth. Each one plays a vital role in grounding me in the Scriptures, tradition, and the cycles of daily devotion. Here, I’d like to share the essentials that I rely on for my quiet time, study, and prayer.
There is a sacredness in the stillness of the day’s early hours, a kind of peace that envelops the soul as the world begins to awaken. In the quiet of the morning, before the day’s demands rush in, there is a rare opportunity to simply be—to rest in the presence of God and listen for His voice in the silence. I find that these moments of stillness are some of the most precious times to commune with the Creator. As the light of dawn gently touches the earth, I am reminded that each new day is a gift, an opportunity to draw closer to Him. The silence isn’t just the absence of noise—it is a space where the heart is more open, more in tune to the divine presence that surrounds and sustains all of creation. In these quiet moments, I am often drawn to ponder the teachings of Christ. His words, so often spoken in the simplicity of nature or the calm of the early morning, seem to resonate more deeply for me in this stillness. The Beatitudes, the call to love our enemies, the invitation to take up our cross—all of these teachings come alive in the silence, as a personal call to live in the light of His truth.