Easter joy

Easter Day

Hallelujah!

Sing to the Lord a new song;

sing God’s praise in the congregation of the faithful.

Psalm 149:1

Mary Magdalen at the Tomb
Daniel Bonnell 2023
ink on grocery bag

Easter joy

is the joy that comes in the morning

after a night of weeping

and speaks to the deepest grief

Easter joy

is at first unrecognizable

and then speaks our name

and we are saved

Easter joy

unsettles the very foundations of the universe

and renews creation

Easter joy

commands us to go

compels us to proclaim

its breathtaking goodness

with every Alleluia!

The morning after

 Holy Saturday

Let my prayer enter into your presence;

incline your ear to my lamentation.

Psalm 88:2

the morning after comes

heavy

with the weight of death

the reality of grief

and shards of broken hope

the morning after

all has collapsed

into emptiness

to be filled

with lamentation

but not yet

now there is only silence

as time stops

and creation holds it breath

Emptying

Good Friday

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

and are so far from the words of my distress

Psalm 22:1

The emptying has begun

of expectation

of certainty

of false hope

empty altar

empty cup and plate

holy things

emptied

of purpose

cruel wind

emptying

bystanders

of compassion

a God

so far 

too far from the cry

blood and water

poured out

leaving a body

empty of life

Next

Maundy Thursday

I spread out my hands to you;

my soul gasps to you like a thirsty land.

Psalm 143:6

the next step

is irrevocable

the breath after that

a gasp

a choked cry

at the tenderness

displayed in the midst

of inevitable betrayal

the next heartbeat

pained by abandonment

and the fear

of all that comes

next

Gracious space

Wednesday in Holy Week

 

I would flee to a far-off place

and make my lodging in the wilderness

Psalm 55:8

The space around me is gracious

open

waiting

expanding into sacred time

which cannot be counted in minutes

hours or days

measured rather

by encounters

with faithful conversation

quiet confessions

the rhythm of worship

of preparation

I collect distractions

gather them up

then scatter them

set them aside

the final stretch of wilderness

a clearing

an emptying

making way

Tears

Tuesday in Holy Week

Depart from me all evildoers,

for the Lord has heard the sound of my weeping.

Psalm 6:8

My journey

approaches its end

from moment

to moment I step

from one terrain to another

The holy path

the ubiquitous

the oblivious

Each its own stream

claiming

my attention

my effort

I yearn to immerse myself

my thoughts

my focus

my aching soul

in the sacred 

where my weeping is heard

my tears kept and counted

Collapse

Monday in Holy Week

Give me the joy of your saving help again

and sustain me with your bountiful spirit.

Psalm 51:13

collapse

the entry point

the gateway

the threshold I cross into this holy week

the beginning of the end

collapse of time

the weeks of striving

the path ahead

disintegrate into now

collapse of the limits of human experience

from greatest expectation

to ultimate pain and loss

utter destruction of hope

all of it

collapses into tangled chaos

that will somehow end up

at the foot of the cross

where all

all of it

all of me

can be redeemed

Thirst

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 rain is irregular and unremitting, coming in bursts, downpours, trickles as the day progresses. Hardly steady and yet continuous.

It seems the perfect accompaniment to my Lent. My progress has not been steady. I have strayed, stumbled, sometimes balked. Yet I have continued.

And I will finish. I will complete the way. Honestly, at this point it is no longer a choice, not at all up to me. I have given myself over to the stream of events that will carry me to the foot of the cross. Because I know no other way.

I hear the rain once again roar into a deluge. And I feel thirst in my throat and body and soul, the yearning for completion, the longing for salvation, and the certainty that I am being drawn toward redeeming love. 

Days ahead

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

I wake before the sunrise, yet there is a hint of the dawn to come. I pull the blanket around my shoulders immersing myself in warmth and savoring the comfort of the moment. I watch as the morning light arrives, the vivid orange of the horizon foretelling the brightness ahead and I smile as I realize my day will be illuminated by spring sunshine.

I have time to linger this morning. And I will have space in my day for an afternoon walk when I can take note of spring. I will listen to birdcalls, smell the damp earth, feel the temperature of the air vacillate between cool and warm. see new growth.

I will soak all of this up. The morning comfort, the bright cool spring, the holiness of creation. God will walk with me through this day, opening the path of life before me.

And God will be present in the days ahead as I walk the way of love and the way of the cross.  

Still

Thursday in the Fifth Week of Lent

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

I look at the date and realize that I have missed a deadline. At some point yesterday I remembered I needed to complete this task and I meant to add it to my list. Or one of my lists. Which at this point are out of control.

My desk is covered with post-its, along with a pile of written notes. I seem to add projects to the organizational app on my computer with greater speed than I complete them. And then there is that other list on my phone. 

I recognize this territory. This place in the wilderness where I fool myself into believing that I can control the impact of what lies ahead, that I can organize my way through the spiritual upheaval of holy transformation.

I have been here before and I know what to do. I stop doing. I quiet myself. I open myself to God’s presence. I linger. I sense a pool of tranquility expanding around me. And I wait.

Flourish

Wednesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

I call with my whole heart;

answer me, O Lord, that I may keep your statutes.

Psalm 119:145

I planted the seeds two weeks ago, and now the grass in my small indoor Lenten garden flourishes. First, I had to wait for the seeds to sprout and I wondered: was the soil good, did I give them the right amount of water, had I buried them to the correct depth? Then, I began to see spikes of green pushing up, reaching for the light. They seemed sparse, and I wondered if I had scatted enough seeds.

Now it is clear that they are fulfilling their promise.

And what about me? Am I ready to flourish? I have been buried deep in the soil and messiness of Lent. I have pushed my way through at times, reaching for the light. I have felt living water, holy water, crack the shell around my soul and bid me to break free.

For me to fulfill God’s promise, I must accept God’s promise.

There remain curves ahead as I set my face toward the completion of my wilderness trek. Passion and suffering, celebration and sorrow, uproar and silence await me. And I would choose no other way.

 

True light

Tuesday in the Fifth Week of Lent

My help comes from the Lord,

the maker of heaven and earth.

Psalm 121:2

I am about to delete the news email when a headline calls me up short, “Don’t bother turning off the lights when you leave a room.” My father drilled into us exactly the opposite. He would even walk through a room I was in and turn off the lights on me because the audacity of lights left on was more noticeable to him than me quietly reading in a corner. The article goes on tell me that my father’s command, while once important in an age of incandescent lightbulbs, is no longer valid.

My father’s insistence on this practice was both the result of his having been born in the depression and his sense of stewardship. He was careful about resources. He believed saving pennies made a difference. And he was clear that all that we have comes from God.

I learned respect for the environment from him, and the practice of tithing as a spiritual discipline. And I believe that my father knew in the depth of his soul that Christ is the true light, and that true help comes from God. 

Perhaps my father’s lightbulb practice no longer holds merit. Yet the faithfulness I absorbed from him continues to light my way.

Safe

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 spring day remains bright, and still I do not step out into the sunshine. I had planned to go for a long walk. Yet I feel wedded to the comfort of my chair and my soft sweatshirt and the throw on my lap. Leaving the safety of this snug nest seems beyond me.

At times, I find the upheaval of the pandemic years reasserts itself within my soul and I crave security and reassurance. The grief from that time is like a stream that sometimes trickles and sometimes floods it banks and often changes course. Today it is lapping at my toes.

I acknowledge the grief. I shake hands with it while at the same time stretching out my other hand to the One who saves me.

I know that God is my help and my salvation. I have experienced God’s love and mercy over and over again. In years past, and on this Lenten path. So now, I place myself once again into the hands of my savior and remember that I am already redeemed, already safe, forever loved.

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.

Sacrifice

Thursday in the Third Week of Lent

 

Truth shall spring up from the earth,

and righteousness shall look down from heaven.

Psalm 85:11

 

I look twice to be sure because I do not want it to be true. A large branch of the majestic maple tree in our backyard is touching the ground. Not quite broken off, nevertheless damaged enough that it will have to be removed. Cut off. Along its length, the smaller branches are already hosting their signature red buds.

 

I whisper an apology to this tree, words of sympathy even.  With its deep roots and strong trunk, it will survive the loss. But I mourn such a sacrifice in our world where every green plant with its precious contribution to the life of our earth is needed.

 

Yet even now persistent life is at work, as seeds already in the earth are being broken open so that tendrils can push through soil to reach the sun.

 

My Lenten journey includes unexpected loss and sacrifice, and mourning walks with me at times. And also, God watches over me, offering openings for me to reach for the light. 

Showing up

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

The conversation is lively as we gather on zoom, as this group has been doing each Wednesday morning for the past three and a half years. Born out of necessity, our healing prayer group has become a place of deep spiritual formation. We pray for those we know who are ill, those in our community who are in need, and the hurt in the world.

And we share our daily lives. We tell stories, we plan, we share news, we laugh. We sustain one another.

The healing we experience is all the more powerful because we know that we abide in the holy One. We have placed our trust in God, and it is that hope which keeps us showing up week after week. Showing up because of others, showing up for one another, showing up for God.

As I log off, I offer up a prayer of thanksgiving for this community of healing, my companions on this Lenten journey.

Manna in the desert

Tuesday in the Third Week of Lent

So mortals ate the bread of angels;

God provided for them food enough.

Psalm 78:25

I open my computer to work and am met with the low battery warning. I forgot to plug it in the day before. And now I am at home and my power cord is at work. Poor planning.

This can happen with my soul as well. I address one task after another, meet the needs of work and community, tend to family and friends, and forget to rest. Or, in truth, I resist my need to rest.

The satisfaction I get from working long and hard without stopping to recharge is a mirage in the wilderness. It is the enemy who whispers in my ear that I can do it all. By myself. It is God who provides manna in the desert.

I close my computer before it dies. The work it leads to can wait. I will take this moment to respond to the invitation to open myself to God’s care, to find solace and sustenance in the presence of the holy, and to remember where I find rest for my soul. 

Safe

Monday in the Third Week of Lent

Restore us, O God of hosts;

show the light of your countenance,

and we shall be saved.

Psalm 80:3

I quietly walk into the room and take my seat in the circle of people at prayer. They have kept a space for me, and as I join I feel the welcome. More than acceptance, what is offered here is belonging.

This leadership group has gathered for contemplation and visioning, and for restoration. Into this sacred space we place our struggles and challenges, our yearnings and hopes, our courage. All the while opening ourselves to the presence of the Holy One.

I see the light in the faces around me, and I sense the light within each person as well. Light that is a reflection of the Holy abiding in each of us. 

I sit in this circle of faith, and I feel whole. Restored. Ready. I sit in the presence of God and know this is where I am safe and saved. 

Out of focus

Saturday in the Second Week of Lent

O tarry and await the Lord’s pleasure;
be strong, and God shall comfort your heart;
wait patiently for the Lord.
Psalm 27:18

The awaited for crocus blooms expose a splash of purple in the midst of a cold rain. I had expected them to first reveal themselves to bright sunshine. Nevertheless, I stoop to take a picture, wanting to capture this first glimpse. Yet despite several tries, the flowers remain out of focus. It is the blade-like leaves that stand out sharply.

Unexpected too are the ways my Lenten path veers from anticipated directions. Things which I thought would be my focus fade into the background while what I presumed to be inconsequential captures my attention.

And I am reminded that the unforeseen is also in God’s hands. If I tarry, if I wait and see what is put in front of me, I am more likely to notice when God calls my attention. 

Weathering

Friday in the Second Week of Lent

I have grown weary with my crying;
my throat is inflamed;
my eyes have failed from looking for my God.
Psalm 69:4
 

Bright sunshine and bitter wind pummel me, competing for my attention as I cross the uneven ground of the yard. There is no path toward my destination, a piece of downspout that has been ripped from its place by the fierce gusts. I need to put it right, before it is blown out of my reach and beyond repairing.
 
This too is how my Lenten journey progresses at times, across uneven ways with no clear path as I seek to put right what has been torn asunder in my life, feeling still fierce reminders of the devastation of the past four years.
 
Yet even in this wilderness I can perceive the signposts of tenacious hope, determined resilience, defiant new life. My eyes may be weary from seeking, yet the Holy One is ever-present. My soul may be timid; the creative force of God is not.