Falling

Thursday in the Fourth Week of Lent

Save me, O God,

for the waters has risen up to my neck.

Psalm 69:1

We begin our prayerful walk through the church, following the stations of the cross. As it comes to my turn to read, I am almost unable to continue after reading the title: Jesus falls for the first time.

Jesus falls for the first time. The first. There will be more falls. More instances of failure to carry the burden. More encounters with pain. More weakness. More being overcome by human frailty. This is Jesus. And how am I to cope?

There are days when I find it hard not to be fearful of the road ahead and my failures to come. And then there are the times when it is unclear how I can continue in the aftermath of failures I have already committed. Accepting my human frailty, seeking forgiveness and amendment, remain a struggle--even with as many opportunities as I have had to practice.

There is no hope for me. Except to cry out and place myself within the mercy of the One who has walked the road before me and made it safe.

Image source

Beauty

Wednesday in the Fourth Week of Lent

 

I will set no worthless thing before my eyes.

Psalm 101:3

 

Almost with me noticing, my peace lily has set forth two beautiful blooms. I have had this plant for many years now, gifted to me one fourth of July after completing its duty as a centerpiece at a church coffee hour. It was small then, leaves only, in a 4” pot with a red-white-and-blue ribbon. This first time it bloomed was in 2020, in the midst of the pandemic.  I saw it as a kind of miracle, a witness to life and beauty and creation in the midst of death and desolation and the unraveling of the world.

 

Now the lily’s richness has multiplied and I make myself stop what I am doing for the moment to enjoy its lushness. So many more things grab my attention these days than was true two years ago. Then, I marked the daily progress of a small leaf unfurling into a beautiful bloom. Now, I have given these two only passing glances.

 

My Lenten journey is not complete. There is still time to notice the blooms of the desert and set my eyes upon the beauty that is found only along the wilderness road.

 

Cares and consolations

Tuesday in the Fourth Week of Lent

When many cares fill my mind,

your consolations cheer my soul.

Psalm 94:19

Already I can feel the pressure build, my mind and attention being pulled by the magnet of the busyness of the weeks ahead. A similar pressure fills my head as the unpredictable weather brings on the inevitable seasonal congestion. Both body and soul feel sluggish and hesitant. I feel avoidance coming on like a cold.

But then I see the shafts of light across my chair inviting me to sit in sunshine, I read the email from a friend who has made time for me, I feel the warm coziness of a beautifully knit wool sweater, I hear the windchimes being played by the vigorous gustiness of the day. And as I set myself to the task of preparing worship services, I am surrounded by prayer, ancient and new.

God speaks to me continuously. When I listen, my soul is comforted.

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Tenacious

Monday in the Fourth Week of Lent

God speaks, “I will not break my covenant,

nor change what has gone out of my lips.”

Psalm 89:34

The emergence of crocuses, petite daffodils, and the brave leaves of tulips leads to the migration of warm coats and boots to the back of the hall closet. Bright packets of seeds catch my eye in the grocery store and I wonder if I might get an early start on my annuals this year.  Of course, I know better. March’s irascible temperament dropped the temperature to a cold 18˚ last night.

Spring is indeed here, both by calendar and creation. Although the daylight lengthens by regular increments, the rest of the season arrives in fits and starts. Always. The path of new life fights its way through a boulder field of obstacles. And like the tulip bulbs I once planted upside down, it nevertheless finds its way to burst forth into the open.

God’s love is tenacious. God’s promises sure.

Perspective

Saturday in the Third Week of Lent

Before the mountains were brought forth,

or the land and the earth were born,

from age to age you are God.

Psalm 90:3

Yesterday, I rested. And rested. I slept in. I put on a warm sweater and sat outside in the spring sun and read a book. I took a nap. And I kept saying thank you to God.

Resting not only restores my body, it also gives my heart and soul perspective. I cannot perceive God at work in the world if I do not have the time and the capacity to reflect. In truth, I can never see all of God, who is beyond all knowing. Yet, when I give myself the gift of stopping doing and reveling in being, I begin to see more.

More of the intricacy and beauty of God’s creation. More of my reliance on saving grace and sacred Wisdom. More of my need to depend on the One who is all in all.

This morning brings me to another day in the eternity that belongs to God. I begin with gratitude.

Changing direction

 Friday in the Third Week of Lent

As for me, O Lord, I cry to you for help;

in the morning my prayer comes before you.

Psalm 88:14

The sun hits the morning mist, refracting into sparkling light. Beautiful. And a result of a change in direction as the light hits the water and slows.

In the middle of this trek through this season, as obligations and planning begin to claim my focus, perhaps it is a good reminder for me: slow down and change direction.

I do not want to miss the learning, healing, and reconciliation offered by living into a holy Lent. I want to place myself in the path of God’s light and be changed.

Image by Michael Gaida from Pixabay

Finding my way

Thursday in the Third Week of Lent

Teach me your way, O Lord, 

And I will walk in your truth.

Psalm 86:11

The mile-long trail, wending its way through a pine forest, deposits me at a beautiful lake. When it is time to turn back, I decide to take a different way, having noticed other paths branching off along my walk.

It is soon clear that my sense of direction is not on point and that the trails are more numerous and complicated than they had seemed on the map I glanced at before I began my walk. The map I didn’t think to bring with me. 

I am not truly lost. I am still on a trail. But choosing to take another way home in unfamiliar territory has disoriented me. I need help. I check the GPS on my phone and find the best path. The return trip will take longer than I would like, but there are no shortcuts from here.

In my Lenten journey too, I can make things more complicated than they need to be and become perplexed and bewildered. The remedy is to stop, take a deep breath, and seek help. To firmly ground myself in God’s truth. To reorient myself toward the One who saves.

Sharing hope

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

 

I walk into the room filled with colleagues that I haven’t seen for three years. Suddenly, my heart swells, expelling an ache I hadn’t known was there and I am astonished at the unexpected tears. I can hardly identify the feeling. Relief? Grief? Something else? I didn’t know how much I was missing all this life, until I see it now.  

 

And it is vibrant life. I am surrounded by beloved, faithful partners in the task of holding out hope. We are all weary from the road we have been traveling. And the journey has changed each of us. We are, at the same time, like wayfarers meeting at a resting place along the road, and like far-flung relatives gathered around the table at a family reunion.

 

I identify the feeling: gratitude. What I see in the faces and hear in the voices of my friends is hope realized. And the acknowledgement that this is God’s doing. We are not, and have never been, in this alone. And in this very act of gathering, God renews our strength for the journey.

Thirst

Tuesday in the Third Week of Lent

God split the hard rocks in the wilderness

and gave them drink as from the great deep.

Psalm 78:13

In the pre-dawn I am already on the road, leg one of a journey that will take me across the country. I reach for my water bottle only to discover it is empty. It will be a while before I can refill it.

I begin to feel the thirst like an ache deep in my bones. It is perhaps exacerbated by my interrupted sleep.

Simple things, water and sleep. Everyday things---except when they are not. I hear a long-ago voice giving advice to a new mother. Drink when you can. Rest when you can.

My soul also thirsts and aches for reassurance. That I am on the right path, that I am following God’s call, that I am being faithful. That rest will come.

And again, I reach for the comfort of the psalms. I will drink from the abundance God provides in the wilderness. I will rest in the assurance of God’s faithfulness. 

Image by soumen82hazra from Pixabay

Restoration

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

As both fear and risk of COVID eases in my area, I find I am now able to look ahead in a different way. Even knowing that there will be variants and outbreaks to come, I sense an opening. As if having traveled through a wilderness of hills and rocks and deep cervices, I have now arrived at a level plain and a vista has opened offering a wide view. I feel that restoration is in sight.

Restoration. Renovation, repair, renewal, rebuilding. All of these apply to the way ahead for me, my family, my community, my congregation. What choices will we make? How will we recognize the ways in which we have been transformed?

Restoration implies bringing something back to its former glory. Yet something restored is also new, with its own character, imbued with the marks and mars of experience and wear and time.

As God restores us, we will be brought to our beloved selves and also be made new.

Wanting

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 week began with a blizzard and ends with weather warm enough for short-sleeves. Crocuses which had barely sent tentative tips above the earth seem to have burst into full bloom overnight. I almost feel like I have missed something. Was I not paying enough attention to the coming of Spring? Was I distracted by stress or busyness? Is it too late?

And have I lost track of Lent?

No. Regardless of the season, the remedy for my soul’s restlessness is the same. Seek God. In tentative green edging trees and flowerbeds. In bright colors amidst grey-brown earth. In warm air greeting me as I step outside. In the spaces where I feel wanting.

 

Full praise

Friday in the Second Week of Lent

Let the heavens and the earth praise God,

the seas and all that moves in them.

Psalm 69:36

The brightness and the fullness of the moon is astonishing. I know this is reflected light, yet such luminosity seems like it must radiate from that orb itself. What is unseen, the pull of the moon drawing entire oceans toward itself, feels even more miraculous.

God’s creation dances in intricate patterns, impossible to be seen or grasped completely. Our view, our perspective, is simply too small. We are a part only. And creation does not depend upon us. It is exactly the other way around.

The heavens and the earth, the seas and all that moves in them, the moon, the dawn, the spring robin--all praise God. We would be foolish and remiss if we did not lift our voices as well.

Image by Mateusz Wyszyński from Pixabay

Confidence

Thursday in the Second Week of Lent

 

For you have been my hope, O Lord God,

my confidence since I was young.

Psalm 71:5

 

I know it is still March, and the weather unpredictable, but the welcome warmth cheers my soul and makes me want to rush into spring. Even a morning drizzle does not dampen the lightness I feel at my core. I have been so hungry for this assurance of new life and relief from dreariness.

 

At the same time, I don’t want to rush. I want to savor each bud noticed, each breeze carrying fresh scents, each drop that is not frozen.

 

Having mostly lived in climes where the seasons are sharply marked by change in temperature and vegetation, my soul too recognizes this rhythm. I have confidence that spring will come, that hope brings strength, that God promises life over and over again. 

Haphazard unison

Wednesday in the Second Week of Lent

 

Let your loving-kindness be my comfort,

as you have promised your servant.

Psalm 119:76

 

One-by-one we pop onto the zoom screen, greeting one another. Our conversation begins with checking in, then moves to who is in need of healing—people we know, people we have heard about, the world itself. Soon we transition into prayer as one of us leads a litany that has become familiar.

 

For over a year now we have been meeting every Wednesday morning to offer healing prayer. We are a small enough group that we stay unmuted, allowing our voices to blend haphazardly. I especially love the Lord’s prayer in this context, our voices not quite in unison, reaching across the miles that separate us. It makes me think of people all over the world praying this prayer in different places and languages. I imagine this prayer as continuous; at any given moment of any given day, someone somewhere is reaching out to God with these familiar words. 

 

Pray without ceasing, the Apostle Paul counsels us. Sometimes, this means being attentive and prayerful about God’s presence in all things as I go about my day. And on Wednesday mornings, I am reminded it also means my voice being one of many in a stream of prayer that has no beginning or end.

Windows

Tuesday in the Second Week of Lent

For God alone my soul in silence waits;

truly, my hope is in the Holy one.

Psalm 62:6

The sun warms the room with a gorgeous orange glow. Yesterday, the warmth erased much of the evidence of Saturday’s furious spring storm. Today will be warmer still.

As I look out the window, I think of other windows of space and time. Not just vistas, but openings. Opportunities. During the height of the storm the roads were treacherous. A few hours later, passable. Today, I will move freely without thought of mitigating risk.

I think about windows in my spiritual life. Not all times call for the same engagement. Not all seasons require the same disciplines. For this time, as I watch the day brighten, I am called to silent awe.

 

Vow

Monday in the Second Week of Lent

 

I am bound by the vow I made to you, O God;

I will present to you thank offerings.

Psalm 56:11

 

 

My morning includes an unexpected journey. Having gotten up early to take my daughters to the train after a wonderful visit, we discover that a problem on the track has kept the train from running. The solution sends me on a four-hour round trip.

 

I do not mind the drive. Extra time for conversation with two I love on the way out, an audio book that I am enjoying on the way back. My first meeting is not until later in the day, and the emails will just have to wait.

 

I am already home when I remember my writing. The daily rhythm of prayer, meditation, composing a reflection, and then posting it is an important part of my Lenten discipline. It keeps me attentive to God’s presence, engaged in self-examination, and honest about my own need to repent. And I usually send it out first thing in the morning.

 

This practice, over the more than ten years that I have done it, has taught me how to accept God’s mercy--and to be more gentle with myself. My commitment, my vow, to this work is for and with God. And I am always the recipient of so much grace.

 

I will not fret that this is late. The practice brings me once again into the presence of the holy, and I am grateful. 

Capacity

Saturday in the First Week of Lent

I would hasten to escape

from the stormy wind and tempest.

Psalm 55:9

As I gaze across the wet, grey horizon, the unexpected chirp of a bird pulls my focus close. I wait, holding my breath, listening intently; it is gone. Farther off I hear the rough cry of a crow and then that too dissipates into the fog. We all await the storm to come.

Somehow along the way, through my many treks through the wilderness, I have become capable of standing firm in the face of a tempest. Neither flight nor fight—rather trust. Or at least the ability to remember with one part of my brain that God is merciful. I have been overwhelmed—by grief, horror, inadequacy. I have exhausted my reserves of compassion and coping. And God has brought me safely through.

A bit battered, perhaps. In need of healing, often. Nevertheless, saved.

I hold fast to these remembered experiences. That trusting in God’s love for me keeps the enemy at bay. And as I accept God’s mercy, my own capacity to be merciful expands.

Image by Annie Spratt from Pixabay

Light and Rest

Friday in the First Week of Lent

Open my lips, O Lord,

and my mouth shall proclaim your praise.

Psalm 51:16

Having woken in the night and then found sleep again, I open my eyes to bright sunlight. I immediately offer a prayer of thanks. For the light, for the warmth of the covers, for feeling more rested.

Light and rest. The beginning and the culmination of creation. God’s first creative act was to call forth light. Not at first the sun, moon, and stars, but light itself. I think of the light accompanying the calling forth the rest of creation through the seventh day, which was rest itself.

Light and rest mark my Lenten way. The searing light of self-examination, the gentle dawn of contrition, the warm glow of forgiveness and acceptance. The simple relief found in breathing in and out, the respite granted by moments of beauty, the deep rest of contentment.

May not a day go by that I do not open my lips in praise for the God of creation.

 

Image by andriish22 from Pixabay

Buoyancy

Thursday in the First Week of Lent

 

For my part, I will sing of your strength;

I will celebrate your love on the morning.

Psalm 59:18

 

Yesterday began grey, then transitioned to a light rain. Followed by sleet, then snow, and once again the yard was covered with white. And yet. Yet, I know this is how March works. And spring will come.

 

This time last year, I was wary. Even as spring seemed possible, I held expectation at bay in the same way that I was keeping hope of the pandemic’s end at arm’s length. I knew then that the pandemic would not give way easily. I had no idea it would be another year. And yet.

 

Yet, I know something of God. I have trusted in sacred promises and not been disappointed. Time and again hope has been the strength that carries me through, and hope will buoy me now.

 

Love will come. 

Image by Kranich17 from Pixabay

Ransom

Wednesday in the First Week of Lent

We can never ransom ourselves,

or deliver to God the price of our life.

Psalm 49:6

The laundry, which is dry, is still in the dryer. Which would not be a problem except for the load in the washer that has been waiting all day. The dishwasher is clean, which is good. But until it is unloaded the dirty dishes will remain in the sink. The kitchen floor is in dire need of sweeping and I’m pretty sure tomorrow is trash pickup meaning the overflowing trash cans need to be emptied and a litany of tasks to be accomplished is running through my head and just when I decide to sit still for a minute and breathe my phone rings.

There are not enough moments or breaths in a day to calm this mess down.

I recognize this hamster wheel for the trap it is: deception. I am foolish if I think I can travel the Lenten desert without God, and I am foolish to believe that God wants me to labor incessantly to prove something. Traps and deception are tools of the enemy.

I cannot save myself. How fortunate that God is gracious, and loving, and merciful. God will ransom my life, and snatch me from the grasp of death.

Image by Vinayak Harshvardhan from Pixabay

Quieting

Tuesday in the First Week of Lent

We have waited in silence

on your loving-kindness, O God.

Psalm 48:8

In the stillness, I become restless. Nothing else needs my attention right now, nevertheless many “elses” tug at me. Persistent rather than urgent. Subtle in their distraction. Drawing my meditation apart and wedging cares into the spaces.

I quiet myself again. I breathe in and sense the silence deepening around me, enfolding me in well-being. I breathe out and send the distractions on their way.

I continue with each breath to nestle in closer to the Holy presence. Gratitude fills the space vacated by all else, and I am content.

Peaceful moment

Monday in the First Week of Lent

Rise up, and help us,

and save us, for the sake of

your steadfast love.

Psalm 44:26

The unexpected warmth of the day lends itself to a pleasant evening on the porch. A stolen moment, at this beginning of March, a wild month with unpredictable weather. 

In a world and on a path that hold dangers and treacherous terrain, this moment of peace calls to me, asking to be noticed and honored. It is God’s moment, as all moments are.

The Spirit lead, drove, Jesus into the wilderness. A time of prayer, fasting, and testing. The opportunity, imperative even, to discern and reject more than one false self, conjured by the enemy. 

If I am to likewise to combat the lies and come to myself, I need these moments of calm and solace and beauty. I need to lean into God’s steadfast love.

 

Promised joy

Saturday after Ash Wednesday

Weeping may spend the night,

but joy comes in the morning.

Psalm 30:6

Sleep helps. I know this. Many times when I am stressed over something at night, I find in the morning that the problem seems less daunting. Rest helps. I know this. 

Nevertheless, I don’t stop when I am weary. I can, must, send one more email, make one more phone call, clean up one more mess. One of the enemy’s favorite strategies is to make us think we have to be going full tilt all the time. In order to achieve, in order to be worthy, in order to be saved.

And God?

God comforts. God blesses. God saves. God rests. God promises that weeping and mourning are not the whole of it. God promises joy in the morning.

Image by Siloé Amazzi from Pixabay

Asking for help

Friday after Ash Wednesday

Take me out of the net that they have secretly set for me,

for you are my tower of strength.

Psalm 31:4

Once again, I am caught. Trying to fix things. Trying to fix everything. Sometime during the last two years, I put a post-it on my desk that says, “I am not responsible for the pandemic.”  A good friend spoke these words to me, and at the time I thought I had better write them down and keep them close.

Clearly, I was right. Because I keep falling into the trap of thinking I must make everything better for everyone. And of course, when I can’t, I feel inadequate. This is a favorite ploy of the enemy: to lure me into a net of false expectations woven out of distortions of my own gifts. What is true is that I do have compassion for others, and I am good at fixing some things.  What is also true is that many, many things are not mine to fix.

My only hope when I am entangled in this web of distortion is to ask God for help. My only way out is to rely on the One who is the author of truth and life. And when I ask, the answer comes as sweet release from the stress of trying to be someone other than who God created me to be.

 

Image by Markéta Machová from Pixabay

Lengthening

Thursday after Ash Wednesday

Commit your way to the Lord and put your trust in him,
and he will bring it to pass.
Psalm 37:5

Yesterday I noticed the daylight linger. Of course, daylight has been increasing since the winter solstice. But somehow, as I kept my quiet Ash Wednesday vigil, I was aware of the lengthening of the day.
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The word Lent itself is about this lengthening; derived from Old English lencten, meaning lengthen, it was the word for Spring. As I commit myself once again to this journey, I sense the path lengthening before me, as if it were being unfurled a few steps at a time in response to my movement. 

Not a set path. Not a predetermined length. My way not fixed, but fluid.

Here, at the very outset, I am bid to trust. A gift. A saving grace. I pray for lengthening. Of my soul, my spirt. Of yearning and resolve. Of the sending and return.

A wisp and a whisper

Ash Wednesday

For the Lord knows whereof we are made;
and remembers that we are but dust.

Psalm 103:14

I awaken startled from a dream that lingers, leaving me with wisps of loss and confusion. It takes a moment to come to my full senses, to regain my equilibrium and the familiarity of my space, my home. I have to breathe intentionally before I can enter into my morning ritual.

My dream and its aftermath echo the disruption I continue to experience in the day-to-day. We are all looking for the familiar--the traditions, rituals, and patterns that we once knew, and which bring us comfort. But the framework of our life has been broken, what we know irrevocably altered, and the way forward remains uncertain despite the gradual return of practices we had to set aside two years ago.

Perhaps the only question we can answer is what to do with this moment. Perhaps the only way forward is to let go of the very idea of patterns.

So. I will enter this day knowing only that this moment is for ashes.  And taking to heart that I am a wisp and a whisper, I am dust into which the Holy One breathed life, I am known and remembered.