Stations of the Cross 2026

There’s an elderly man.
He wakes up early.
Not because he wants to… but because he has to.
His wife is already awake.
Disoriented. Frightened.
She doesn’t recognise the room.

Sometimes… she doesn’t recognise him.

He speaks gently.
Explains again.
And again.
And again.
He helps her dress.
Prepares breakfast.
Guides her through a day she no longer understands.

There are moments of clarity.
But they’re rare now.
Most days are a slow fading. A long goodbye.
He didn’t choose this.
This wasn’t the life he imagined.
It’s the cross he has to bear… and he carries it quietly. Faithfully.
So, every morning… he gets up.
Because he loves her.

Two thousand years ago on that first, terrible Good Friday, another man was
given something heavy to carry.
Rough timber. Heavy & splintered.
The instrument of his own execution.
This was not a surprise to him.
Long before this day, he had told his followers
that anyone who walks his path must be willing to
deny themselves… and take up their cross.

In his world, that wasn’t a metaphor.
It meant one thing: a slow, public, torturous death.
He knew where this road would lead.
He’d been walking toward it for a long time.
And now the moment had come.
So, as the soldiers placed the timber on his shoulders…
he did not resist.
He took up his cross.

The weight pressing into open wounds.
This was a burden he did not have to carry.
But he chose to.
And he turned…
and began to walk.