Wednesday in the First Week of Lent
Remember your word to your servant,
because you have given me hope. Psalm 119:49
I wake up problem solving, the transition from dream to reality hardly noticeable. One of yesterday’s unanswered emails pops into my head and as my brain anxiously proposes possible replies it is all I can do to reach for my prayer book instead of my computer.
Prayerfully I review the day before, giving thanks for the moments of grace discovered. Then it dawns on me. I have missed the giftedness that is all around me. Suddenly all of the people I encountered yesterday come back to me in a new light and I realize that I am surrounded by resources. My entire body relaxes, the day before me now one of promise rather than trouble.
Hope is a gift that gently tugs at my attention, a barely discernable breath with just a hint of warmth, smelling of moist soil and freshness and the promise of life.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Joyful Shout
Tuesday in the First Week of Lent
Clap your hands, all you peoples;
shout to God with a cry of joy. Psalm 47:1
Taking a break from our meeting, we stand outside in a spot of sun, determinedly soaking up the almost-spring warmth. Inevitably, our conversation rehearses the ravages of this winter not quite past. More snow is in the forecast later this week, but for the moment we are undaunted. Then my colleague exclaims, “Look!”
Tucked in amidst the brown and dirty grass that has been exposed by the thaw, a crocus humbly points pale purple petals to the sun. We excitedly gather around to get a look. Our joy seems out of proportion for this ordinary showing. We almost overlooked it altogether; and perhaps if our yearning for spring were less desperate such an appearance would hardly have generated comment.
What else have I overlooked? What else deserves my joyful notice? I take a picture of this small spring flower and text it to my friends, determined now to see God’s grace in my work, in this day, in this moment.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Clap your hands, all you peoples;
shout to God with a cry of joy. Psalm 47:1
Tucked in amidst the brown and dirty grass that has been exposed by the thaw, a crocus humbly points pale purple petals to the sun. We excitedly gather around to get a look. Our joy seems out of proportion for this ordinary showing. We almost overlooked it altogether; and perhaps if our yearning for spring were less desperate such an appearance would hardly have generated comment.
What else have I overlooked? What else deserves my joyful notice? I take a picture of this small spring flower and text it to my friends, determined now to see God’s grace in my work, in this day, in this moment.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Green Twig
Monday in the First Week of Lent
But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God;
I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever. Psalm 52:8
As I brush off the debris that has collected on the patio during this long and harsh winter, I notice some supple twigs among the rubbish. A few downed slender branches of forsythia show new growth. These are not the dead branches of last fall, but new shoots that have been broken off in the recent ice and wind.
New life can be brave and tender. I admire the courage of the bush to boldly put forth new growth into this questionable spring, so late in coming. And along with this boldness, vulnerability.
I too yearn to unfold new shoots, perhaps more tentatively than the forsythia. Even so, I lift my face to the sun, trusting in God's mercy, knowing that safely planted in God’s house my tender green spirit will be imbued with the strength and courage to thrive.
But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God;
I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever. Psalm 52:8
As I brush off the debris that has collected on the patio during this long and harsh winter, I notice some supple twigs among the rubbish. A few downed slender branches of forsythia show new growth. These are not the dead branches of last fall, but new shoots that have been broken off in the recent ice and wind.
New life can be brave and tender. I admire the courage of the bush to boldly put forth new growth into this questionable spring, so late in coming. And along with this boldness, vulnerability.
I too yearn to unfold new shoots, perhaps more tentatively than the forsythia. Even so, I lift my face to the sun, trusting in God's mercy, knowing that safely planted in God’s house my tender green spirit will be imbued with the strength and courage to thrive.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Thirst
Saturday after Ash Wednesday
As the deer longs for the water-brooks,
so longs my soul for you, O God. Psalm 42:1
By the time I reach for the water to assuage my thirst, I realize I have been thirsty for a long time. When was the last time I drank anything, I think, as I review the day behind me. I try to be very conscientious about my water consumption, usually keeping a glass on my desk and filling it several times a day.
I have read that by the time the mind registers thirst, the body is already beginning to be dehydrated.
One of the gifts of the desert is thirst. The reminder that we need to partake of life-giving water in order to live. One of the gifts of the wilderness journey is thirst. Can I still my mind and body and soul long enough to become aware of my need for the living water that is Christ?
so longs my soul for you, O God. Psalm 42:1
By the time I reach for the water to assuage my thirst, I realize I have been thirsty for a long time. When was the last time I drank anything, I think, as I review the day behind me. I try to be very conscientious about my water consumption, usually keeping a glass on my desk and filling it several times a day.
I have read that by the time the mind registers thirst, the body is already beginning to be dehydrated.
One of the gifts of the desert is thirst. The reminder that we need to partake of life-giving water in order to live. One of the gifts of the wilderness journey is thirst. Can I still my mind and body and soul long enough to become aware of my need for the living water that is Christ?
Friday, March 7, 2014
Release
Friday after Ash Wednesday
Be strong and let your heart take courage,
all you who wait for the Lord. Psalm 31:24
As I maneuver the car into the parking spot in front of my house, I have to apply more caution. The thick ice that has formed into mounds in this spot has begun to melt. Finally. But as it does it slowly reveals the damage it has worked on the pavement, leaving large potholes in its wake.
Driving in my neighborhood has become a kind of Olympic sport: pothole slalom. No street can be simply navigated. Rather, we drivers must adroitly swerve around these hazards and make way for one another as the mounds of frozen snow that still encase some parked cars turn streets into curvy single lanes. And often we wait.
We wait for spring. We wait for warmer weather. We wait for the snow and ice to melt. We wait to see what will be uncovered. We wait to be released, to be free to navigate familiar ways with ease and confidence.
I yearn for the same release for myself. That a way might be opened within me and around me. That I can shed the constraints of doubt and anxiety and old habits that keep my head down and my shoulders hunched. That I might open myself once again to the light and life and love of God and be free.
Be strong and let your heart take courage,
all you who wait for the Lord. Psalm 31:24
Driving in my neighborhood has become a kind of Olympic sport: pothole slalom. No street can be simply navigated. Rather, we drivers must adroitly swerve around these hazards and make way for one another as the mounds of frozen snow that still encase some parked cars turn streets into curvy single lanes. And often we wait.
We wait for spring. We wait for warmer weather. We wait for the snow and ice to melt. We wait to see what will be uncovered. We wait to be released, to be free to navigate familiar ways with ease and confidence.
I yearn for the same release for myself. That a way might be opened within me and around me. That I can shed the constraints of doubt and anxiety and old habits that keep my head down and my shoulders hunched. That I might open myself once again to the light and life and love of God and be free.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Image credit: virynja / 123RF Stock Photo
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Broken Fast
Thursday after Ash Wednesday
Put your trust in the Lord and do good;
dwell in the land and feed on its riches. Psalm 37:3
I finally give in to a handful of pretzels. Typically I enjoy a fast day. I like the prayerfulness of it, the tug that comes at me during the odd hours when I begin to reach for something to eat and then become mindful of my want and step away from it. I appreciate the reminder of how easily I assuage my desires as I am in the act of setting them aside. I enjoy the longing and the simplicity a fast brings.
But this time my need for sustenance wins out over the spiritual discipline. At least I’m choosing pretzels, I think. After all, they are a Lenten tradition. And I am mindful about eating them. I count five into my hand, and munch them slowly, deliberately. I do not try to consume them surreptitiously, pretending they don’t count. Nor do I judge myself for breaking my fast. It is what it is.
Even in the wilderness abundance awaits discovery. God sustains us on every journey. Sometimes that sustenance is more obvious than at other times. I have just stepped onto the Lenten path to discover that already there are riches to be found along the way. In fasting and in mindful eating. In giving up and in taking in. In trusting in God and in trusting in God. And in trusting in God.
Put your trust in the Lord and do good;
dwell in the land and feed on its riches. Psalm 37:3
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But this time my need for sustenance wins out over the spiritual discipline. At least I’m choosing pretzels, I think. After all, they are a Lenten tradition. And I am mindful about eating them. I count five into my hand, and munch them slowly, deliberately. I do not try to consume them surreptitiously, pretending they don’t count. Nor do I judge myself for breaking my fast. It is what it is.
Even in the wilderness abundance awaits discovery. God sustains us on every journey. Sometimes that sustenance is more obvious than at other times. I have just stepped onto the Lenten path to discover that already there are riches to be found along the way. In fasting and in mindful eating. In giving up and in taking in. In trusting in God and in trusting in God. And in trusting in God.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
Image credit: red2000 / 123RF Stock Photo
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Deliverance
Ash Wednesday
You are my hiding-place; you preserve me from trouble;
you surround me with shouts of deliverance. Psalm 32:8
The morning dawns cold and I burrow into my prayer shawl seeking warmth. This winter has been hard--its own kind of wilderness with drifting snow and fluid ice presenting a constantly changing landscape not unlike shifting desert sands.
The bright daylight outside my window arriving earlier each day assures me that spring must come. And the birds, impossibly chirping in the frigid air, confidently announce deliverance from winter’s grip.
In my home and in my soul I have hidden from the storms in the safety of prayer and refuge. But now the Holy One coaxes me out with icy sunshine and optimistic birdsong into the morning of ashes. I will mark my forehead and I will set my foot upon the path even while the snow and cold linger, trusting that warmth and green lushness and new life await. I lift my face to remember I am dust and greet with welcome the juncture of despair and hope. Willingly, because I have been here before, I enter into another wilderness in search of the life I know can be found.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
You are my hiding-place; you preserve me from trouble;
you surround me with shouts of deliverance. Psalm 32:8
The morning dawns cold and I burrow into my prayer shawl seeking warmth. This winter has been hard--its own kind of wilderness with drifting snow and fluid ice presenting a constantly changing landscape not unlike shifting desert sands.
The bright daylight outside my window arriving earlier each day assures me that spring must come. And the birds, impossibly chirping in the frigid air, confidently announce deliverance from winter’s grip.
In my home and in my soul I have hidden from the storms in the safety of prayer and refuge. But now the Holy One coaxes me out with icy sunshine and optimistic birdsong into the morning of ashes. I will mark my forehead and I will set my foot upon the path even while the snow and cold linger, trusting that warmth and green lushness and new life await. I lift my face to remember I am dust and greet with welcome the juncture of despair and hope. Willingly, because I have been here before, I enter into another wilderness in search of the life I know can be found.
copyright © Anne E. Kitch 2014
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