Lent. Morning. Day 2.

I've sorted out, at least a little what my observance of Lent will look like for this year. What things will be added, and what will go. I know from experience that that will shift and change as the season moves and deepens.

I marked Ash Wednesday in my own quiet, private way late last evening. A simple but deep time of prayer. The mixing of incense and oil. Wrapped in a shawl that has come to symbolize those deeper moments of prayer. Lifting my own heart and lenten season and the hearts and seasons of those I love before the Savior who increasingly owns my heart.

Deep cold and snow have set in again this week, feeling somewhat oddly appropriate for this season in the church calendar. Yesterday was a particularly grey and gloomy day, oddly appropriate for a day celebrated with ashes. It was -36C with windchill factored in here this morning. And snowing.

But there is somehow hope in the midst of that. Both of the last two days, as I've brushed the snow off of George in the greyness of semi-dawn, in the bitter cold, I've noticed the song of some intrepid sparrows and chickadees singing in the trees that line my street. Calling out about warmer times coming. About spring and new life.

I told a friend last night that while I'd dreaded the deepening arrival of Lent this year, with it's coming, my heart was somehow ready. Ready for the season. Praying for change and restoration and freedom. That somehow, overnight, between Shrove Tuesday, and Ash Wednesday, Jesus moved in my heart, and replaced dread with a peaceful, purposeful acceptance. That though I'd worried that I hadn't yet heard from him how to observe the Lenten season this year, he spoke quietly to my heart and made it clear through the day yesterday.

I wonder sometimes if I don't waste a lot of time worrying about what is ahead when it seems so clear that right now Jesus usually waits until just the moment of necessity to speak his clarity and direction into a situation.

I suppose it ties back to the quote from Teresa of Avila that I shared last night, and the lyrics from dcTalk that I shared this morning.

"I'm learning to give up the rights to myself." Right now that means the right to know what is coming. The right to understand. The right to see much beyond the moment in which I am existing. It means learning to trust in a radical new way. A way that is painful and stretching.

As I said yesterday, I'm committed to waiting and fasting and praying and listening and letting my heart be changed.

Still Thinking About Teresa (Giving up the rights to myself)

I was still thinking about the quote I shared last night from Teresa of Avila as I was driving to work this morning, and a song lyric from when I was a teenager came to mind in relation to that. Nothing like some old school dcTalk, but I've always loved the following lines, and they are speaking the same thing to my heart that the quote from Teresa was.

I'm learning to give up the rights to myself.
The bits and the pieces I've gathered as wealth
Could never compare to the joy that you bring me.
The peace that you show me is the strength that I need.
(From "My Will" by dcTalk)

What a mistake...

I read this quote in "The Interior Castle" - the sixteenth century book I've been working my way through for a while now, and it struck me deeply. I'm continuing to ponder as the evening goes on...

"We are so very fond of ourselves and so very careful not to lose any of our rights! Oh, what a great mistake we make! May the Lord in his mercy give us light lest we fall into such darkness."
(Teresa of Avila, The Interior Castle, Fifth Mansion, Chapter 4)

Surrendering. Everything. Even my rights. To Jesus.

News Headline

Income affects Hospitalization for Depression

Ashes

A little over a year ago, on Ash Wednesday last year (which fell earlier in February than it does this year), I landed in Rome.

As that day drew to a close, two friends and I were able to be part of the last mass marking the day being celebrated in St. Peter's Basillica.

A year and a bit later, I still have very few words for those moments.

To describe what it was to stand in that place, after the trip that was drawing to a close, and mark the beginning of Lent.

To remember the scent of incense that seemed to linger long after it should have drifted away.

To recall how I'd French braided my hair into two separate braids that day, and remember the sensation of the ashes sitting in the part of my hair, resting on my head for the day that followed.

To remember the blessing of standing amidst a deep and holy space with friends.

Much has changed in the year that has followed, and I remain uncertain how I will mark this Lenten season.

But today, today I'm remembering the ashes. The feeling of them on my head, and in my hair. The moments that are too deep for words, but are treasured in my heart.

Today I'm marking again the beginning of a season of fasting, waiting, praying. A season traditionally of preparation for baptism. A season that moves without faltering towards death, and then culminates in the celebration of life.

And so, I will wait and watch and fast and pray. For miracles of joy and hope and restoration. For miracles of resurrection and new life. For peace. And I will remember ashes and dust and let my heart be changed.