Entrusting hope

Friday in the Fourth Week of Lent

 

Let all those whom the Lord has redeemed proclaim

the God redeemed them from the hand of the foe.

Psalm 107:2

 

Sweet sounds of the mandolin accompany my morning devotion. As I settle into prayer, my spouse’s music practice also acknowledges the sacred. The tune is Celtic, a bit mournful, a bit transcendent. A bit perfect for this moment in Lent.

 

Just as I am somewhat startled by the signs of spring, which seem to have arrived suddenly even though expected, I am surprised that I have come so far in my journey in the wilderness. I have stumbled many times in the past weeks; God continues to set my feet upon a sure path.

 

Acknowledging grief and mourning, sensing the mystical, recognizing my yearning for the holy, I entrust my hope to God’s mercy and step once again into the wilderness. 

Confession

Thursday in the Fourth Week of Lent

In your great mercy, O God,

answer me with you unfailing help.

Psalm 69:15

For the umpteenth time I pick up my phone. I stop myself before I swipe the screen. I do not need to see all the apps. I do not need anything at all that can be found through this device. I set it down.

I have been trying to pray, to enter into conversation with God, to be attentive to my relationship with the one who loved me into being. And as is usually the case, distraction is close at hand. Because the enemy would much rather I check the weather or play a game or read the news than strengthen my connection with the Holy One.

I settle myself again, knowing I am already (and always) in God’s presence. And what comes from my heart is sadness. Regret that I have given space to so many distractions. Disappointment in my choices that have led me to disregard the holy. Grief.

All of this I confess. And in return I sense God’s loving-kindness, am aware of mercy. I repent. I turn again to God. And I recommit myself to the Lenten path, this journey toward wholeness, and the promise of transformation.

Resilience

Wednesday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Steady my footsteps in your word;

let no iniquity have dominion over me.

Psalm 119:133

The bright warmth of the afternoon lures me outside and I finally begin to gather up the fallen branches in the yard, the detritus from days of rain and wind. I brush away dead leaves uncovering the full brightness of the petite daffodils that have bloomed when I wasn’t looking. And in the debris, I discover first one, then another, dried hydrangea bloom, still intact.

These delicate flowers, at some point blown off their stems, are even more fragile now that they are dried. Yet they have survived rain and snow and winter cold. It is their fragility that has saved them I realize. The lightness of each petal offers no resistance to the elements, allowing all to pass by of through them. Drained of life and color, nevertheless they remain beautiful and offer testimony of resilience.

They remind me of the strength in vulnerability, the Christlike quality essential for this journey. To cross this wilderness, I must surrender to the One who can steady my footsteps.

Embodied

Tuesday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Confounded be all who worship carved images

and delight in false gods.

Psalm 97:7

The disconnect is to be expected as my body tells me one thing and the clock another in this first week of daylight saving time. This morning, the impulse to go with my body’s rhythm rather than exert the effort to be “on time” wins. I tell myself it is the wisdom of age.

This body, even as it grows older and its aches and pains increase their persistence, is a gift from God. What else can it teach me? What would I discover if I followed the path my body inclined toward? What treasures are to be discovered along that way?

Even God became a body. Slept, woke, hungered, ached, stretched, aged. Not a carved image. Not a vain hope. Following the way of the cross is following that precious body, sacred and human.

Walking the way of love is embodied. Placing one foot in front of the other, however young or old, strong or gnarled or tired those feet may be. Or when feet are broken, our bodies might find different ways to move, or be carried along the way by others on the journey. Nevertheless, it is our whole selves, our souls and bodies, that are called.

Disturbance

Monday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Yours are the heavens; the earth also is yours;

you laid the foundations of the world

and all that is in it.

Psalm 89:11

I wake in the dark hearing the voracious wind. And I wonder. What makes the sound? The wind itself? Tree branches furiously scraping against one another as the air forces its way past? Other bodies that are disturbed?

The Holy Spirit too can arrive with ferocity. And does it have a sound? Or is its presence announced by those it moves in its passing, voices lifted in prayer, in lament, in grievance and in praise.

In the middle of the night, in the middle of Lent, the world outside pummeled by the wind, I wonder what the Spirit has in store for me. All of creation belongs to God and I am within it and small. And I am of it also.

Refuge

Saturday in the Third Week of Lent

Lord, you have been our refuge

from one generation to another.

Psalm 90:1

The somewhat neglected rocking chair from my grandmother’s house becomes our topic of conversation. Should we put it back into circulation? It has been sitting in an out-of-the-way corner of a basement room for the past several years. I admire this piece of furniture, with its walnut finish and caned back and bottom. But it has never had a proper home with us.

Also, its sagging bottom would need to be repaired. My mom would have done this herself, sitting on the back patio in the summer sun with strips of caning soaking in water, lifting them one by one to weave them together. However, this craft is beyond my skill or desire.

Yet, I feel the pull of heritage, of connection, of relationships spanning generations.

As I follow this thread of remembering, I become aware that I have been woven into the faith lives of these women as well. Their care of furnishings extended to the care of holy things, sacred vessels, altar linens. Their attention and craft given to preserving the refuge of liminal space. Their reverence is also part of my inheritance. A reflection of and tribute to our true refuge in God. 

Hope

Friday in the Third Week of Lent

And now, what is my hope?

O God, my hope is in you.

Psalm 39:8

Some days I feel the immediacy of God’s presence, wrapping around me like a soft blanket. Some days I experience an empty space between me and the holy. Some days it seems I would need to cross a chasm in order to even find a hint of salvation.

And yet. And yet the evidence of God’s loving-kindness is all along my way. Behind me in yesterday’s affirmation from a friend. Before me in the sunshine peeking through the trees. Beside me in the comfort of a loved one. Within me in the places where I have been healed.

I can rest my hope in God, where there is strength to hold it, to cherish it, to kindle a holy flame within it to light my way. Always.