The road is familiar. I have walked it before.

Palm branches once lined the path, waving in the air, tossed to the ground. Hosanna rang out in voices eager for a king—one who would overthrow, who would establish, who would fix. But their cries faded. Their expectations crumbled. And soon, the voices of praise turned into shouts of accusation.

I have preached this before. I have written this before. I have walked toward Easter many times.

But what have I missed?

The echoes of that week remain. The sounds of conversation at the table—disciples arguing over greatness while Jesus knelt to wash their feet. The hush of the room as He broke the bread, lifted the cup, spoke of His body, His blood. Did they understand? Do I?

The garden scene replays in my mind. Jesus, alone in anguish, pleading in prayer. His closest friends nearby, but distant in their drowsiness. The betrayer approaches, the soldiers seize Him, and the friend with the sword swings in fear.

I walk further into the week, standing near the fire as Peter swears he does not know Him. I see the trial, the crowd, the lashes, the thorns. The cross. The agony. The silence.

I pause here. Have I lingered long enough in the weight of it? Have I stood beneath the cross, really seeing?

I have preached this before. I have written this before.

But what have I missed?

The tomb, sealed shut, becomes the stopping place for hope. But only for a moment. Then, a new sound—the shuffle of feet running, the heavy breathing of those who had lost everything, now hearing rumors of life. The voice calling her name—“Mary”—and recognition dawns.

Jesus, alive. Speaking, walking, eating, reminding, sending.

I have heard it all, told it all, believed it all.

But have I been changed?

This year, as I walk toward Resurrection Day again, I do not want to rush ahead, moving too quickly to the resurrection. I want to sit at the table with Jesus, letting His words sink in. I want to watch in the garden, staying awake in prayer. I want to stand at the cross, letting His sacrifice reshape me. And when I reach the empty tomb, I want to run—not just as one who has heard, but as one who has been made new.

I walk toward Easter, toward Resurrection Day, toward Jesus.

And Jesus walks toward me.