...and so towards Easter...

...and Holy Saturday is always a day of waiting, of preparation...

Every year, as you get older, Holy Week means more.

The church with the evening light of Maundy Thursday, and the priest  - who all year teaches and counsels, and sometimes chides, and  feeds us with the Bread of Life, and is a friend and  helper - kneels and washes people's feet...it is suddenly and quietly moving.

Then the morning of Good Friday, and I joined the group from this church, making the Stations of the Cross around Soho. The young men carry a great heavy wooden Cross, and we follow, singing. We kneel in the street and listen to a meditation for each  Station: "We adore Thee O Christ and we praise Thee, because by Thy holy Cross Thou hast redeemed the world." We  give out palm crosses - at one stage we began to run out but a quick mobile-phone call brought fresh supplies, and Fr A. whipped out a flask of holy water and blessed them as we stood on a street corner. Most people take the cross gratefully, many say "Thank you"  a few say "God bless you". Some kiss the cross. A tiny number refuse saying "I'm not religious". A few just look puzzled but take the cross anyway and then their eyes follow us as we move on...

At one point we met another Christian group - Pentecostals, singing and praying -  and they gave us warm applause.  Fr A. and the Pentecostal leader exchanged a great hug.

Then joining the crowd of thousands in Trafalgar square for the Passion Play...

...and on to this church for 3pm...and the drama of it, and the silence as we all depart at the end and make our way home...