The following passage, from one of my Lenten reading books, caught at me tonight, in it's description of this Holy Saturday, this day that I've passed, that is now drawing to a close...
It read:
"This is a day for expecting the kingdom of God. To those who wait, the time between death and resurrection is very long. For God, it is but a moment." (Journeying Through Lent with Luke, by Nancy Koester)
I am waiting and expecting the kingdom of God. I am longing for resurrection to come.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Moving through the waiting
I pray better, I wait better, I survive better, when I'm moving.
When there are things that can be a distraction.
When there is motion that can be a focus.
And so, on this day that is so marked by the waiting for resurrection, I've moved.
I grocery shopped and visited the library.
I went to the post office, and stopped off at my parent's home.
I looked through cookbooks with L., planning some new meals to add to our regular fare.
I did laundry.
And cleaned my bedroom.
And swept the kitchen floor.
I vacuumed George.
And scrubbed his dashboard and other surfaces.
And fed him with gasoline.
I remembered to be thankful when malfunction with my seat in George stopped long enough for me to move the seat to the right spot, making it easier to drive.
I worked through several lists of things that needed to be done, cleaned, or accomplished.
And now, now I'm getting ready to settle down a little.
To read and pray and actively wait.
To prepare for the week ahead (though thankfully, I don't have to return to work until Tuesday).
To let quiet overcome the need for movement, and hopefully bring peace.
When there are things that can be a distraction.
When there is motion that can be a focus.
And so, on this day that is so marked by the waiting for resurrection, I've moved.
I grocery shopped and visited the library.
I went to the post office, and stopped off at my parent's home.
I looked through cookbooks with L., planning some new meals to add to our regular fare.
I did laundry.
And cleaned my bedroom.
And swept the kitchen floor.
I vacuumed George.
And scrubbed his dashboard and other surfaces.
And fed him with gasoline.
I remembered to be thankful when malfunction with my seat in George stopped long enough for me to move the seat to the right spot, making it easier to drive.
I worked through several lists of things that needed to be done, cleaned, or accomplished.
And now, now I'm getting ready to settle down a little.
To read and pray and actively wait.
To prepare for the week ahead (though thankfully, I don't have to return to work until Tuesday).
To let quiet overcome the need for movement, and hopefully bring peace.
The Day Between
This is the day between.
The day the disciples hid in an upper room, their world falling apart. Angry, fearful, shocked, grieving the loss of the one to whom they'd devoted the last three years of their life. The one they'd lived with, eaten with, slept near. Their teacher, the one they'd thought would change the whole world order. Their friend.
His body was laying in a stranger's grave.
And it was sabbath. They weren't permitted to work, or to be near the grave, so they gathered and waited, wondering if the wave of hatred that had stolen him from them, would come for them next.
~~~
This is the day between.
The day that life and light and hope lies temporarily buried.
I know the end of the story.
And yet, today I reflect on the grief, and the emptiness.
And I wait.
I fill the waiting, the grieving, the emptiness, in my own ways.
Moving on with life in a simple way. Groceries. Cookbooks. Maybe a walk in the park.
~~~
This is the day between.
And I am waiting.
The day the disciples hid in an upper room, their world falling apart. Angry, fearful, shocked, grieving the loss of the one to whom they'd devoted the last three years of their life. The one they'd lived with, eaten with, slept near. Their teacher, the one they'd thought would change the whole world order. Their friend.
His body was laying in a stranger's grave.
And it was sabbath. They weren't permitted to work, or to be near the grave, so they gathered and waited, wondering if the wave of hatred that had stolen him from them, would come for them next.
~~~
This is the day between.
The day that life and light and hope lies temporarily buried.
I know the end of the story.
And yet, today I reflect on the grief, and the emptiness.
And I wait.
I fill the waiting, the grieving, the emptiness, in my own ways.
Moving on with life in a simple way. Groceries. Cookbooks. Maybe a walk in the park.
~~~
This is the day between.
And I am waiting.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Via Dolorosa
As I listened to this song being performed this morning, it hit my heart deeply. Isaiah 53 has also been deeply on my heart today.
Tenebrae
It's Good Friday. I hate that name. It's such ridiculous thing to call a day marked by bloodshed, by darkness, by hatred "good". Years ago, as a small child, I memorized a prayer for this day, a prayer that has stayed with me all these years. It began "Lord, it seems so strange to call a day like this Good Friday."
I always feel Holy Week deeply. And Friday is always the hardest day.
I head for the mountains, not because they help or bring comfort, but because at least there, unlike the city, there seems to be space large enough to hold the brokenness and suffering without it being absolutely crushing.
I'm attending a service called Tenebrae this morning with my roommate and some friends. It's the only service I've ever attended that seems to fit this day. It's an ancient ritual, involving candles and darkness. You walk into a dim room, lit only by a few candles. Move through reflections on shadows. Songs. Scriptures. Reflections. As the passion narrative progresses, the shadows grow deeper - candles are snuffed until finally only the Christ candle remains. And then, that too is snuffed out, and you simply leave, in silence.
After Tenebrae we'll have lunch together and then L. and I will go to the mountains. We'll stop at a place I've loved and just sit for awhile. L. will take photos, and I'll likely write for a while. And then we'll head off together to take more photos, and round out the day with a trip to the hot springs.
It'll likely be quiet here for the rest of the weekend. The only thoughts likely to make it here (if any at all) will be reflections on the progression of the rest of Holy Week, and the deep longing and need for the arrival of resurrection.
My heart has been numb, but today it is beginning to hurt again, and I am needing to allow space for that. To let myself feel and think and experience. To search for Jesus and peace. To pray, and simply be quiet.
I always feel Holy Week deeply. And Friday is always the hardest day.
I head for the mountains, not because they help or bring comfort, but because at least there, unlike the city, there seems to be space large enough to hold the brokenness and suffering without it being absolutely crushing.
I'm attending a service called Tenebrae this morning with my roommate and some friends. It's the only service I've ever attended that seems to fit this day. It's an ancient ritual, involving candles and darkness. You walk into a dim room, lit only by a few candles. Move through reflections on shadows. Songs. Scriptures. Reflections. As the passion narrative progresses, the shadows grow deeper - candles are snuffed until finally only the Christ candle remains. And then, that too is snuffed out, and you simply leave, in silence.
After Tenebrae we'll have lunch together and then L. and I will go to the mountains. We'll stop at a place I've loved and just sit for awhile. L. will take photos, and I'll likely write for a while. And then we'll head off together to take more photos, and round out the day with a trip to the hot springs.
It'll likely be quiet here for the rest of the weekend. The only thoughts likely to make it here (if any at all) will be reflections on the progression of the rest of Holy Week, and the deep longing and need for the arrival of resurrection.
My heart has been numb, but today it is beginning to hurt again, and I am needing to allow space for that. To let myself feel and think and experience. To search for Jesus and peace. To pray, and simply be quiet.
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