Maundy Thursday 2 April 2026
The church was full of incense and smoke, like having smudged glasses. The smell was lovely.
M arrived a few minutes later with her husband C, and took a seat behind me. C “ooohed” with perfect comic timing when M explained I was from Chester. Which is posh to those raised in Liverpool.
M is one of those people I’ve been lucky enough to know since I joined the church. Her heart spills over with kindness. She talks at a million miles per hour, but listens quickly too. She has become an instant old friend. Like someone you’d already banked 20 years of being a neighbour.
She talked about staying until midnight near the altar of repose so Canon P wouldn’t be here on his own. She planned to pop home then come back. I said I would try, remembering how in Canterbury last year, there had been many people who stayed late. But I knew even as I said it, I’d find it difficult, balancing family.
M knows this. How it can be tricky with a non-Catholic family. She knows to put family first.
She has a friend who died recently. Her husband is not catholic and refused to let her have a catholic funeral or even tell anyone when the funeral would be. Today, M discovered it had been yesterday.
She knew of another family, grieving the recent loss of their adult son who, seemingly having everything going for him, took his own life. Unimaginable pain.
Plenty of people to pray for.
I sat and thought about how easy my life felt by comparison. I went up to have my feet washed, sitting between W (who joked about having his left foot washed last year, so this year uncovered his right). and a little girl whose mum and dad sat nearby. Canon P apologised that the water was cold and, as he reached me, joked that he should have a shoeshine brush.
I have thought many times that if I could go back in time, it would be to the Garden of Gethsemane, to sit with Jesus for an hour.
Then I start to think of how just saying this makes me sound high and mighty, like I was somehow better than the Apostles. That I would succeed in staying awake where they failed. I’m not better than them. At best, I could nudge them occasionally to help keep them awake.
When Canon P had explained how the church would “go to sleep” at midnight, as Christ was arrested, I felt my eyes begin to sting.
An hour felt like the least I could give, so I stayed as one by one others began to leave. Then, as the hour passed, I gathered my service books and got up to go home.
I knew I couldn’t stay till midnight. I had to get home. I had to be with my family, safe in our house, safe in our beds. But I felt that tug of guilt, of leaving too soon. So no, I couldn’t stay awake with Christ either.