every time

Wednesday in Holy Week

 

I am shaken by the noise of the enemy

and by the pressure of the wicked

Psalm 55:3

every time

every time I come to this juncture

I am caught off guard by the noise of the enemy

the sacred beauty of this path lulls me

into thinking

what?

that the enemy is not still present?

even now

my journey can be upended, unraveled

yet if ragged prayers

battered resolve

hope that has seen better days

are all I have

it is enough

I have been here before

and every time salvation comes

every time

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Turn

Tuesday in Holy Week

Turn, O Lord, and deliver me;

save me for your mercy’s sake.

Psalm 6:4

the way circles back again

turning in on itself

yet at every turn

mercy is there to greet me

Image by Wolfgang Eckert from Pixabay

Paradox

Monday in Holy Week

Give me the joy of your saving help again

and sustain me with your bountiful Spirit.

Psalm 51:13

I cross the threshold

into the incongruity of this week;

contradiction, the welcome mat

ambiguity overshadows the path ahead

even at the end of this journey

I am supplied with bounty

gratitude in the midst of despair

joy dancing with sorrow

solace fashioned out of fatigue 

the handiwork of salvation

Image by LIMAT MD ARIF from Pixabay

Athirst

Saturday in the Fifth Week of Lent

My soul is athirst for God, athirst for the living God;

when shall I come to appear before the presence of God?

Psalm 42:2

The Lenten landscape feels oddly quiet in this moment. Almost a lull after yesterday, which began grey and heavy, then lightened up as the sun ushered in afternoon warmth, soon to be riled up by fierce wind.

The geography of this journey, like the weather, is irregular and unsettled, reliable only in its constant ability to challenge my sense of where I am and how I am doing. What should my next step be? It seems I have been on this way for a lifetime, and it seems too soon to be at the turning I know is ahead.

What I do know is that I thirst. I thirst for the return of certainty. I thirst for the well-being of others. I thirst for knowing the way forward. And there are days I thirst for something for which I have no name. 

And deep in my soul, I also know that this wilderness and this thirst are within God’s provenance. And that all my wandering and wondering can never truly take me beyond God’s loving-kindness. 

Image by Uwe Jacobs from Pixabay

Morning welcome

Friday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Let me hear of your loving-kindness in the morning,

for I put my trust in you;

show me the road that I must walk,

for I lift up my soul to you.

Psalm 143:8

On this morning, I hear the Spirit greet me as I wake. It is a gentle voice, with a lilt and a hint of joyous laughter. She takes me by the hand and ushers me into a new day. One of God’s best miracles.

This is pure gift, and I receive it as such. It is not of my making, and I know too well that I could easily squander this grace by simply not taking it in. Or thinking I have something more important to do, or a better idea how I need to spend this day. As if it were something I could use or consume.

So, I place my soul in the hands of the morning, and breath in its sweetness, and wait for God to show me what comes next.

Image credit: Alyssa Sieb @alyssasieb

Compline

Thursday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Feast of the Annunciation

 

But I still my soul and make it quiet,

like a child upon its mother’s breast;

my soul is quieted within me.

Psalm 131:3

At the end of the day, I avert my eyes from the computer screen and just listen. I know the people I am praying with are present, virtually gathered as we have become accustomed to, and I realize I don’t need to see them to feel a part of this evening we share.

The words wash over me--familiar scripture, the poetry of the psalm, the gentle call and response of litany. I am a child again, being read to, comforted by ritual and closeness and sacred story.

And after we have all logged off, I remain in my chair, the arm of the holy One draped across my shoulders, holding me close, and the sweet voice of the Beloved promising to be with me all night long.

Image credit: Alyssa Sieb @alyssasieb

Necessary emptiness

Wednesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

My soul waits for the Lord,

more than watchmen for the morning,

more than watchmen for the morning.

Psalm 130:5

I add the meeting to an open spot on my calendar without even thinking. Of course the time is free, it was blank. And now. And now the day is both full and lacking. Full of important meetings. Lacking in essential reflection.

Some days are like whirlwinds. And on such days, when it is even more important that I take the time to reflect and pray, it is more likely that I will forget. Or, if I am being honest with myself, that I will think I can persevere without prayer. 

This is the work of the enemy. And as Holy Week approaches, I know the enemy is close at hand, tempting me with business and busyness, urging me to prove just how successful I can be all on my own.

Except the cross is about defeat. Necessary and absolute loss. Complete emptying of self. 

The Lenten way is ancient. My calendar cannot tame it. Now calls for stillness and giving over, for waiting and watching as Love conquers all. 

Marking the way

Tuesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Then was our mouth filled with laughter,

and our tongue with shouts of joy.

Psalm 126:2

My husband and I look at a picture of our nephew holding his newborn daughter as he bathes her. “That really brings back memories,” he says. And I think that could easily be a picture of him with one of our daughters. He was and is tender, gentle, strong, and safe.

Memory is a navigation tool for the spiritual life. As we re-collect past experiences and encounters, they become part of our present repertoire. We can shuffle them, rearrange them, use them as travel guides and map markers. We recall holy moments, and in doing so their richness nourishes our souls and bodies. Then and now.

The wilderness abounds with traces of the paths and holy encounters of others--those who have traveled before me and those who will come long after. The sacred markers are there to see if I am mindful. Signs of strength and joy, courage and tenderness. Food for the journey. Love to be continued. 

Image by Afleur from Pixabay

Wilderness ambiguity

Monday in the Fifth Week of Lent

Into your hands I commend my spirit,

for you have redeemed me,

O Lord, O God of truth.

Psalm 31:5

The sun sends a kiss across the water, illuminating the fresh green branch of spring growth. In the background, on the farther bank of the stream, are the dead limbs passed over by the sunlight. They are broken, beaten by the winter and storms and probably time.

One waterfall of spring thaw laughs its way into the stream while another remains mostly frozen.

New growth and dead wood, frozen and free. These things are not so much contradictions as separate truths, existing at the same time. I am reminded that in God’s economy, more than one thing can be true.

The Lenten path has crossed the middle way, and sooner rather than later will increase its determined pace toward the chaos that comes before the end. It will always be more than I can grasp, full of ambiguity, too vast for me to navigate. My only hope is to place myself in the hands of the God of truth.

Photo credit: Anne E. Kitch

Chaos in balance

Saturday in the Fourth Week of Lent

The Lord changed rivers into deserts,
and water-springs into thirsty ground.
Psalm 107:1

I wake on the first day of spring, when the amount of daylight and darkness are almost equal. Balance. Something I constantly seek.

Yet the first day of spring is hardly ever balanced or even or stable. It comes with rain or sun or snow, it sneaks in on us with ambiguous presence. It often presents chaos of the yet-to-be-realized. And I am so relieved to welcome it.

Balance, a wise mentor once told me, is different ever day. Balance is always about relationship. And when I think of God’s presence and power in the world, I realize that balance is not dualistic, not about two opposites on a scale. It is more like a disk precariously set on a pinpoint continually striving for equilibrium. Or a mobile, tri-dimensional and shifting, creating new shapes and relationships with each breath of air.

In God’s economy, the disk spins steadily and the mobile turns on the breeze, radiating music and story and splendor. Balance and life belong to God. Today, I want to give myself over to spring, and chaos, and the breath of God.

Image by Myriams-Fotos from Pixabay

Oasis

Friday in the Fourth Week of Lent

I sought the Lord, and he answered me

and delivered me out of all my terror.

Psalm 34:4

A physical therapist who is kind, attentive, and funny. A webinar executed with leadership, expertise, and faithful hope. A picture of beloved baby goats. These encounters ease my aching soul into thankfulness, confidence, and delight. None of them are about being back to normal. All of them are about the goodness of God’s creation. The therapist and I are still masked, the webinar explores digital modalities, and the goats…well baby goats are still baby goats.

A year ago, small things brought terror to my soul. Even now on some days it seems all I can do to keep my head above the waters of despair and my heart fixed on hope. And, of course, I am doomed when I try this on my own.  Today, once again, I re-learn the remedy of seeking out my savior.

All along the Lenten path--a year ago and now--are oases of abundance and joy. God feeds God’s people (and goats) in the wilderness.

Photo featuring Quin, Liza, and Re. Credit: Tom Drobena 

Swathed

Thursday in the Fourth Week of Lent

But it is good for me to be near God;
I have made the Lord God my refuge.
Psalm 73:28

As my yoga practice winds down, I keep adding more layers. Sweater. Scarf. Socks. Blanket. It is not so much that it is cool in the house as that I am creating a cocoon, bundling myself into a place of ease and rest.

As I deepen my meditation, I think this is how God’s refuge might be like: swathed in comfort, shielded from drafts and chills, at ease, safe.

Later, I wrap my evening prayers around me like a blanket, pulling my many blessings close, feeling the words ancient and new wash over me, rinsing away the grime of today’s struggle through the desert.

And as I still myself in this refuge, I know that even before I began my day, I was already enfolded by holy Love.

Image by Arif Wijaksana from Pixabay

Buoyancy

Wednesday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Turn to me in mercy,

as you always do to those who love your Name.

Psalm 119:132

Once again, I sink my floured hands into the dough, kneading it and my soul into smoothness.

My rule of life has become simple over the past months. Each day I strive to work some, play some, rest some, and create something, weaving prayer into and around it all, keeping an ongoing conversation with God.

And on an afternoon when my senses are wearied by lament, this small act of creation pulls me back to my center. I lean into God’s mercy as I lean into the dough, making my prayer physical and strenuous. The yeast begins its hidden work, and so does God’s grace, leaving me buoyant once again. 

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Solace intertwined

Tuesday in the Fourth Week of Lent

When many cares fill my mind,

your consolations cheer my soul.

Psalm 94:19

Every conversation in the day brings some lightness with it. We have all waited so fiercely for this spring--we have marked each small sign, noticed each shift in temperature and daylight. And today, I am so clearly not alone in my sense of relief and hope.

There will still be days of cold ahead, March is always a wild month, but I feel so much more capable of taking them in stride. Because in this desert of Lent, I know I am not alone. The nascent joy I am nurturing in my heart is likewise being called forth in a hundred other homes, neighborhoods, geographies. We honor each other’s courage, bolster each other’s resilience, guard each other’s gladness.

And none of this would be possible without the author of all joy. It is God who comforts my soul, intertwines blessed solace among us all on this wilderness road. There will still be days of trouble ahead; this is a wild world. And it is God’s world and we are God’s people.

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

Finally

Monday in the Fourth Week of Lent

For I am persuaded that your love is established for ever;
you have set your faithfulness firmly in the heavens.
Psalm 89:2

Finally. After weeks of looking. After scanning the snow-weary grass as I walk in my neighborhood. After measuring in centimeters the progress of the red-green tips of eventual tulips emerging from 

two-year-old mulch. Finally, I spy early spring blooms. Crocuses. 

I have always loved these petite blossoms, brave enough to emerge in snow, willing to be the short-lived harbingers of spring and possibility. Small. Mighty. Determined.

I need these reminders.  I need to see new life. I need to be mindful that crocuses have been blooming since before I was born and will certainly continue long after I have left this life. I need to remember that I am small. Even insignificant in the greater masterpiece that is God’s painting.

How do I measure progress through Lent? How do I know I am making my way across the wilderness? How do I know that this path will finally deposit me in the arms of resurrection?

I cannot know. I can only place myself in the hands of the holy One who created the crocus and gave me eyes to admire. 

Photo credit: Anne E. Kitch

Refuge of love

Saturday in the Third Week of Lent

Lord, you have been our refuge

from one generation to another.

Psalm 90:1

Today, for whatever reason, echoes of my grandmother accompany my contemplation.

She was a formal woman, a matriarch, proper and thus somewhat stiff. She had a role to play in her small town that was all about being genteel and strictly courteous. But I remember visits with her when she would provide medicine in the form of red hots or chocolate chips to my poor ailing stuffed animals and pull me into the refuge of her lap and rocking chair.

I wonder now about her prayer life. Did she rise early in the morning to read the psalms? Did she cry out to God in times of distress or lift her face to the holy in gratitude? By the time I was a young adult, her mind was consumed with anxiety. I never got to ask her about her faith.

But the small church in her midwestern town still carries her legacy. A legacy of faith that is present in children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. Faith that carried her through two world wars.

 

In God’s time, she is here with me now, offering strength and resilience in place of red hots. Extending her refuge of love, which of course is an extension of the sanctuary of Love itself.

 

Image by tinlala from Pixabay

Okayest

Friday in the Third Week of Lent

But as for me, O Lord, I cry to you for help;

in the morning my prayer comes before you.

Psalm 88:14

A gift I received years ago keeps coming to mind this week. Knowing I had written about it years ago, I go searching, and when I finally uncover that old blog post I am surprised—and not—to realize I had written it for the third week in Lent. Eight years ago.

The gift is simply a digital picture, emailed to me by a dear friend, of a mug that says, “World’s Okayest Mom.” And once again it speaks volumes.

I think we all could do with being just okay right now. We could accept that doing a “just okay” job is okay. And that we simply cannot offer anything more than what we have. We cannot do more than we have energy for, we cannot make our brains function past their limits, we cannot be unaffected by our year-long struggle with the pandemic.

God does not ask us to be more than human. That is a temptation of the enemy, who would love for us to believe that frantic activity and anxious score-keeping pave the road to success. I know, because I have given into this temptation more than once, and it does not lead anywhere worth going.

God asks us to be who we are created to be, and to remember that we are loved, and to love and depend on God—with all our strength. So once again, I lift my face and my voice and my prayer to God, and ask for the help I need.

Mired

Thursday in the Third Week of Lent

I will listen to what the Lord God is saying,

for he is speaking peace to his faithful people

and to those who turn their hearts to him.

Psalm 85:8

In the middle of the day my energy flags. For no particular reason and for every reason. Each new day offers signs that the geography is changing, that this time of trial is on the wane. Yet the path still twists through canyons of uncertainty and glades of sorrow.

My only choice is to stop trying to do this on my own. This is hardly news to me, as I often have to be reminded to stop doing it all by myself. Yet here I am again, mired in the middle of the wilderness and forgetting to ask for help.

Jesus called an entire community to repentance. This is not meant to be a solitary path. I know and am grateful for the many others who are on this journey with me. Now is the moment to reach out.

And now is the moment to give myself over, to place myself completely in God’s hands, and to ask the holy to transform me.

Image by John Paul Edge from Pixabay

Hope realized

Wednesday in the Third Week of Lent

Sustain me according to your promise, that I may live,

and let me not be disappointed in my hope.

Psalm 119:116

Two kids on bicycles. Three more playing their own version of baseball in a field still half covered with snow. Parents teaching a toddler how to roll a large ball. A girl on a scooter outpacing her mother and older sibling. The warm afternoon has drawn us all outside.

I keep track like a bird-watcher. Though I regularly walk through my neighborhood, it has been so long since I have seen this many young people. I could almost cry with relief.

Not because I see signs of getting back to normal. There is no getting back. In the Lenten journey as in life, the way is forward and through to something different. Life and lives are changed by the wilderness. 

It is just that I didn’t know how much I was missing all this life, until I see it now.  What I see are signs of hope realized. And I experience once again the breadth of God’s promise.

Image by bennyqibal from Pixabay

Definition of gift

Tuesday in the Third Week of Lent

I will open my mouth in a parable;
I will declare the mysteries of ancient times
Psalm 78:2

In the pre-dawn I watch as the outlines of bare limbs emerge from what moments before was a monochrome palette. Colors separate themselves into familiar shapes as sketches of branches gain definition, becoming separate trees, hedges, shrubs. Soon the roof of a house across the street fades into view, and then a horizon. Power lines materialize, cutting the space into horizontal sections.

As the scene becomes three-dimensional, moving figures appear. A person walking their dog. A car pulling out of a driveway. A sparrow alighting on top of a bush.

All this life, waiting to be revealed, made known, treasured.

The holy One paints landscapes from parables, molds communities by means of ancient promises, crafts the ordinary out of sacred mystery. God’s creative spirit is at work all of the time—in my smallness and indifference, I do not always perceive it. Nevertheless, the gift is given with each new day.

Image by Frauke Riether from Pixabay

This time last year

Monday in the Third Week of Lent

Restore us, O God of hosts;

show us the light of your countenance,

and we shall be saved.

Psalm 80:3

The afternoon sunshine warms us as we walk a familiar path that at long last has emerged from the snow. Finally, I see some tender buds pushing up through the dirt, seeking the same warmth that lifts my soul. I know where to look for them, because I had watched their progress from bud to bloom this time last year.

This time last year. It is the refrain that marks my days now. This time last year we did not understand what was coming.  This time last year I was filled with sorrow for all I thought I had lost or was going to lose. This time last year the face I lifted to the sun was marked by tears. Tear of grief, yes, but also tears of compassion and gratitude for the bravery and tenderness of the community that surrounded me.

And surrounds me still. This time. Last year. Next year. Now.

Holy seeking

Saturday in the Second Week of Lent

You speak in my heart and say, “Seek my face.”

Your face, Lord, will I seek.

Psalm 27:11

The sun is slow this morning and so is my body. I am grateful that I don’t have anywhere I need to be right away, even virtually. Spring seems to be sluggish as well, as the past few days I have searched the receding snow for spots of color to no avail.

My Lenten journey also seems to have slowed. After stepping across the threshold into the wilderness with intention and purpose, after the deep dive into a practice of self-examination and repentance, I feel curiously adrift. Or becalmed.

There is something for me here, in this muddle of the middle, as I know God’s love is ever present. Here, no longer at the beginning, the end not yet apparent, the path meanders. 

And I am reminded once again that it is the seeking itself that is sacred, that opens me to possibility, that is the spiritual practice for this moment. Yearning, longing, hungering are not only sufficient, but holy.

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Turning love

Friday in the Second Week of Lent

Answer me, O Lord, for your love is kind;

in your compassion, turn to me.

Psalm 69:18

In the company of others in the virtual space we share, I trace a labyrinth path with my finger across a sheet of paper. Each of my companions does the same. If this were another time, and a different circumstance, we would be walking a labyrinth together in the same physical space and time.

But this is the now and the space we have. We set our prayerful questions before us, and trace.

And as we pray this way together, I sense us all on the same path. One that extends beyond us. One on which we circle out to the edge and back into the heart. One on which we each travel at different paces and may be in different quadrants but are nevertheless together along the Way of Love.

The path turns and turns. I come to the center. I rest. And then, I circle my way back out again.

Plenteousness

Thursday in the Second Week of Lent

You strengthen me more and more;

you enfold and comfort me.

Psalm 71:21

The smells from the kitchen begin to fill me with goodness and the taste of the meal to come. Places are set and an evening glow highlights our dining table. My spouse tends to the cooking and later I will wash the dishes and clean up.

For the moment, I savor this time of preparation. Our conversation is easy, the years of sharing meals and life comfortably familiar. Sometimes it is routine, sometimes ritual, sometimes just the way we do things.

It is also gathering time for us. Our days inevitably unfold in divergent directions and adhere to dissimilar schedules. Even working from home in the same space, our rhythms differ. It is the evening meal that reconnects us. It is time set apart. It is holy.

I light a candle. We say a prayer. We begin.

Image: Anne E. Kitch

Connection

 Wednesday in the Second Week of Lent

My soul has longed for your salvation;

I have put my hope in your word.

Psalm 119:81

A year ago my friend and I were enjoying morning coffee in a small, locally-owned coffee shop and bookstore. Surrounded by used books, we contemplated the generations of personal stories not just within the pages, but connected to the pages. How many lives had any one book touched? And how many lives did our own stories connect us to?

Now is the time when “a year ago” becomes a familiar phrase as we sift through our experiences and try to make sense of them, put them in context, learn from them, move on from some and hold on to others.

For me, among other things, it has been a time of practicing hope, deepening community, and nurturing connection. Actually, often holding on to connections for dear life, not wanting to lose anyone or be lost myself.

And where would I be without the constancy of God, who is ever faithful? Whose word connects all? Who binds us with love? Even from six feet apart.

Image by Bruno /Germany from Pixabay

Embrace

Tuesday in the Second Week of Lent

For God alone my soul in silence waits;
from whom comes my salvation.
Psalm 62:1

The wind is fierce, eliciting all sorts of creaks from the house, keens from outside branches, and frantic tolls from the windchimes. I throw out a greeting to wild March, which kisses winter farewell and will frolic its way to spring.

My chair, for the moment, is a place undisturbed by the cacophony. I am still in the center of the storm. Can I be even more still? I quiet myself and focus on the holy, simultaneously drawing within and expanding beyond myself. I find the silence, and in the silence a power that matches the wind.

I sit in the deep pool of calm in the midst of the tempest and wait. And pray. And contemplate. And am drawn close in divine embrace.

Adaptation of Image by Vitalis Arnoldus from Pixabay

Promise

Monday in the Second Week of Lent

Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful,

for I have taken refuge in you;

in the shadow of your wings will I take refuge

until this time of trouble has gone by.

Psalm 57:1

I am more and more aware of days lengthening, especially in the morning. The season is changing. Snow still covers the ground in my part of the world, despite the work of rain and warmer temperatures, simply because there has been so much of it. 

As I walk through my neighborhood, I look for signs of new life, hoping for a crocus or other early bloom. But the receding snowbanks seem to reveal only mud, tired grass, and puddles. Then, as I lift my eyes to watch the geese across a field, I see it. The yellow-green of a willow tree promising spring.

In my heart, hope still seems hampered by the vestiges of this past year. I have been focused on seeking refuge and now I find myself hesitant to unfurl. Yet my life and all creation are in the hands of the One who is always faithful. Mercy has carried my thus far, and I remind myself that the promise of new life includes me.

Photo credit: Anne E. Kitch