The rain had not stopped for days. Heavy clouds blanketed the sky from morning until night as water overflowed onto narrow roads and flooded the rice fields. Trees swayed against the wind while the sound of rain striking the Odu (clay-tiled) rooftops and river constantly was heard throughout. The scent of wet earth drifted through the windows alongside the cool monsoon air that summer of 2004.

Schools had closed because the roads were too flooded to travel safely, and my mom would not let my brother and I play outside because she was afraid we’ll go too close to the river. The strong currents moved through the waters as ripples spread endlessly across the surface. I was feeling restless staying indoors for so many days. Around that time, a local neighbor brought us a DVD copy of The Passion of the Christ. I remember feeling strangely excited simply because it was something new to watch while the rain continued endlessly outside.

I had not yet started Bible school at our parish because I was still too young, so many of the stories about Christ were unfamiliar to me. Through out the movie, I asked my mom so many questions. “Who are the people standing beside Mother Mary?” “Why is that person carrying a strange-looking baby?” I felt confused throughout most of the film, still too young to fully understand everything unfolding on the screen. But there was one scene that deeply struck me. It was the moment Jesus, fell to the ground while carrying the heavy wooden Cross. Not too far away stood Mother Mary watching Him with grief in her eyes.

Hearing all my questions, my mom fondly told me that my older sister was very much like this too, always curious and excited about Jesus. She shared how, even at just 2 years old, my sister used to sing Kurishinte Vazhi, the Malayalam stations of the Cross hymn sung during Good Friday services back home in India. The hymn traces Christ’s journey to Calvary through the fourteen stations, beginning from His condemnation before Pontius Pilate to His burial in the tomb. As the people walked from station to station placed around the church grounds meditating on Christ’s Passion, my sister would kneel at every station while singing the hymn, perhaps simply because she saw everyone else doing it.

I can almost imagine my sister doing that because when I look at my four-year old niece now, she asks similar questions, retells Bible stories with excitement, and speaks so innocently about Jesus.

Years later, I found myself returning to those same images of Christ’s Passion, though now through the lens of grief. This past Good Friday, I stood before the empty sanctuary waiting in line to kiss the feet of Christ while the Taizé chant “Jesus, Remember Me” echoed softly through the church. This time, I thought not only of my sister, but also of my grandmother who passed away just a week before holy week. Once I approached the altar where the priest was holding the wooden cross, I kissed the wounds on Christ’s feet aching with the wish of somehow I got the chance to kiss my sister and grandmother one last time too.

Only a few days earlier during Palm Sunday weekend at a retreat, I had sat on the floor near the altar before the blessed sacrament journaling everything I carried the weight of within my heart. Before me rested a jar laid upon a table with a long veil flowing from within it into a basket below. The image was to portray of how Mary of Bethany poured perfume from her alabaster jar upon the feet of Jesus and wiping them with her hair. Her anointing His feet with tenderness, love, and devotion. On a small piece of paper, I wrote down everything I carried inside me from grief, fear to longing and placed it into the basket.

It was just two days earlier, while walking to church for an adoration night like this, that my mom called to tell me my grandmother had passed away. I remember the strange contrast of returning from my Peru mission filled with joy only to encounter sorrow so soon. From the night I heard the news of my grandmother’s passing, to sitting before the altar pouring out my heart, to kissing the wounded feet of Jesus on Good Friday, I found myself contemplating on the beloved disciple John. The one who leaned close to Christ during the Last Supper, who remained at the foot of the cross when so many others fled, and the one entrusted with Mary. Maybe this is what love and communion truly means. To remain, like John and Mary, near both at the foot of the cross and the empty tomb. To remain through both monsoon storms and seasons of grief when suffering feels unbearable and when hope feels distant, still holding onto the same childlike wonder that first drew us toward Christ.