He is risen. Alleluia.

I've said those words before - many times - but this year they landed differently.

This was my fourth Triduum as a deacon. The first year, I was learning the choreography - where to stand, when to move, how to carry the Paschal candle. The second year, I was refining. The third, I was settling in.

This year, I found myself finally able to be present.

What I felt, more than anything, was peace. Not the absence of things happening - plenty was happening. But a deep settledness underneath it all. A sense that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was made to do, in the company of people I love.

Part of that was practical. My son Joseph served as Master of Ceremonies for the Triduum - coordinating the servers, managing the flow, handling the details that used to occupy a larger corner of my attention. Watching him lead and knowing that he had it completely under control freed me to focus on what was happening at the altar rather than what might go wrong around it.

But there was something else too.

For months, I've been in a season of discernment - praying for clarity about the next chapter, about work and vocation, about what God is asking. That discernment has been intense, sometimes exhausting. And as I entered Holy Week, I realized the liturgies themselves were reinforcing the answer I'd been seeking and had found.

Not in words. In pattern.

The Triduum is one liturgy stretched across three days.

Holy Thursday ends without dismissal. Good Friday begins without greeting - because we never really left. The altar is stripped. The tabernacle stands empty. The Church enters into the silence of the tomb.

And then - fire.

The Easter Vigil begins in darkness. A single flame. The Exsultet sung over the Paschal candle. The long sequence of readings that trace salvation history from creation to resurrection. The water blessed. The elect baptized. And finally, finally - the first Alleluia.

I've served at the Vigil four times now, and for more than 15 years before that as an MC or music director. Each year, when that Alleluia breaks the silence, something cracks open in me.

This year, I understood why.

The pattern of the Triduum is the pattern of every real transformation.

First, there is loss. Something has to die - a way of life, an identity, a plan we were holding too tightly. Holy Thursday and Good Friday force us to let go.

Then, there is waiting. Holy Saturday offers no resolution. The tomb is sealed. We cannot see what God is doing. We can only trust that he is doing something.

And then - resurrection. Not the return of what was lost, but the emergence of something new. Something we couldn't have planned or predicted. Something that only God could bring from the tomb.

As I stood at the altar this year, I realized I've been living this pattern.

There's a role I've held for eighteen years - good work, meaningful work - that is ending. I'll say more about that soon. For now, what matters is this: the ending is not a loss. It's Holy Thursday. It's the stripping of the altar. It's the necessary emptying that makes room for what comes next.

And I am not afraid.

That surprised me, honestly. I expected to be anxious. I'm a planner by instinct. I like to see the path clearly before I take the first step. But somewhere in the discernment - somewhere in the Holy Hours and the Adoration and the Examen - a deeper trust took root.

"You've never been the one who provides. I provide."

That's what I heard, months ago, in Adoration. It wasn't audible. But it was clear. And it freed me.

Joseph didn't need me watching over his shoulder during the Triduum. He had it. The years of serving, of watching, of learning the rhythm - they had done their work. He was ready.

And maybe that's part of what this season has been teaching me too. The formation has been happening for years - in our home, in the diaconate, in the parish, in the writing, in the projects I've been building on the side. The seeds were planted long before I knew what they were for.

Now it's time to see what grows.

From the tomb, new life.

That's the promise of Easter. Not that everything goes back to the way it was. Not that we escape the cross. But that God brings life from death, hope from despair, something new from what looked like an ending.

He is risen.

And so - in ways I'm still discovering - are we.

Alleluia.

More soon on what's next. For now: blessed Easter to you and your household.