When the days of winter begin to show the promises of spring, my spirit will often have moments of great sadness. I know that Lent is near. Although it will be hard, even causing me great grief, the time is here for me to open my heart again, to listen to the stories of Jesus making his journey to save us, his beloved people. From the moment the ashes are so lovingly pressed upon my forehead to the shadow of the cross on Good Friday, I am called to participate in His journey. I will try to keep up as I tag along behind Jesus. His dusty feet will take me through the wilderness, the trials, the cross, and lastly the tomb where I will rejoice in the resurrection.
My sadness and grief that I so easily feel in Lent have history in my memories of the year 1984. Just three weeks after Ash Wednesday, on a cold and dreary day in March, the unimaginable happened to me when very unexpectedly my father died. As with most any new loss, I felt confusion, shock, and inconsolable sadness which made me question if my world would ever be the same again. My childhood priest had been the one to call me with the unreal news; and soon after we were on a five-hour drive to my parents’ home. In my vulnerable and quite wounded self on that long ride, I prayed to God for a sign, a real and significant sign that we would be ‘okay’, that everything in my world would indeed be alright. I prayed for comfort, peace and then forgiveness for feeling so selfish. After all we were in the middle of Lent, already a time of desolation and darkness as Jesus neared His time on the cross. I felt disappointment in myself for only focusing on the “why now, why us, why me” questions. I needed a sign of new life, a sign that would give me hope to dispel the darkness and grief.
God is so mighty! He heard the prayers of this young woman in distress and he sent the signs. A sign as sure as the rainbow after the rain, it came in the words of a favorite song from my beloved hymnal and in the strength of the funeral prayers. The sign came in the skies which had been dark, cloudy, and rainy in the early part of my father’s funeral day, and miraculously parted to show the sun with the most brilliant and beautiful rays stretching upward into the heavens. They appeared to me as witness of hope, life, and resurrection as I followed my father’s procession from the church. God’s signs were kind, merciful and generous to the healing and comforting of my soul. This cry to God and his answer changed me, it encouraged and strengthened me. My Lenten journey became a time spent not only in the wilderness where renewed life is hoped for, but a place for discovering the miracle and power of the resurrection.
Last year during Lent, as with the entire world, I experienced another time of great sadness and uncertainty—knowing my world and ministry would never again be the same. Each morning I entered my workplace where the virus was being fought, wondering if I would stay well enough to return the next day. There were questions asked by my patients’ frightened loved ones that I could not answer and a daily prayer list that grew exponentially. The days were likened to a war zone where love, kindness and grace were needed. In the trenches, my soul—as during the loss of my father—was again seeking the signs, pleading with God for healing and protection. The sign I found was the tender touch of Jesus embracing every moment, despite the Lenten reminder of His own journey of brokenness.
I know this Lent I will still experience some sadness as Jesus travels through the wilderness. I know I must intentionally slow down so that I can fully listen as my soul is called to renewal, rededication, to be a light and to give generously. Each morning I will sing a line from the hymn “Be thou my vision” and pray more often during the day. I will watch, looking for those brilliant rays of sunlight reaching upwards to the heavens and remember the journey, the journey of Christ and my own. I will persevere, seeking ways to keep up with Jesus on the journey, which my faith keeps me believing will help my wounded soul overcome the sadness and grief. The signs of hope, of life, and of miracles will be there, just as I have found in each Lenten journey since 1984.
“Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart…”
—Debbie Butcher
St. Paul’s Cathedral, Oklahoma City