Between Knowing and Showing Up

Last night, I attended the Easter Vigil Mass.
There were adult baptisms and confirmations—beautiful, hopeful moments. Families and friends filled the church, celebrating new beginnings.

Some of them were seated beside me.

At first, I noticed they weren’t participating—no responses, no gestures. I assumed maybe they weren’t Catholic. But my intrusive thoughts got the best of me, and I asked:

“Katoliko mo?”

They said yes.

Instinctively, I told them, “Tindog.”
Because everyone else was standing.

Right after, I felt something shift in me.
Was that necessary?
Was I correcting—or judging?

Then came the consecration.
They knelt.

I didn’t.

And suddenly, I felt small.

Maybe it wasn’t that they didn’t want to participate.
Maybe they just didn’t know how.
Maybe they hadn’t been to Mass in a while.
But when it mattered, they followed. They responded.

And me?
I knew—but I didn’t do.

Today is Easter.
I stayed home. I feel sick, weak… and guilty.

Now I find myself asking questions I don’t like:

Are they better than me?
Are the people greeting with Easter eggs and bunnies better than me?
Am I worse because I know what this day means—but failed to show up?

But maybe that’s not the right question.

Because Easter was never about who did better.
It was never about perfect attendance or perfect responses.

It was about people who didn’t understand—
who doubted, who failed, who scattered…

And still, Jesus rose for them.

For us.

So maybe today is not about comparing faith.
Not about who stood, who knelt, who showed up, who didn’t.

Maybe it’s about this quiet realization:

That even in my inconsistency, my questions, my absence—
the resurrection still reaches me.

And maybe the real response to Easter
is not proving I’m better—

but choosing, slowly and honestly,
to return.