Ash Wednesday

The pattern of my spiritual life might resemble nothing so much as a series of arcs. A continuous pendulum swing, back and forth, careening wildly between grasping attempts at ordered discipline and desperate free-falls of complete abandon. I have always, I think, tended to extremes. And though neither apex is sustainable for long, and balance is something I have always sorely lacked, there does seem to a sort of grace in the sweep and swoosh and swing. There does seem to be some sort of peace in the middle.

I mention this because I have been looking forward to this season of Lent with undue anticipation. That may seem strange to some, but upon reflection, it makes perfect sense for me. The last year of my life has seen some of the most tumultuous upheaval I've ever experienced, almost all of it good, but jarring nonetheless. The six months leading up to our move were filled with to-do lists and problem-solving. And the six months that we've been settled in North Carolina have felt...not quite so settled. Between all the newness and all the travelling and the constant slowly-dawning realizations of just how much we've left behind, I think it's fair to say that I'm just beginning the process of finding new rhythms of home and routine and friendship and grace.

I responded to all the upheaval, not by exercising rigid and rational control over my life and my schedule as some would, but by losing myself wholly and wholeheartedly in the chaos. My life has been characterized by anything but discipline lately and my nearest impulse has been to indulge, to soothe, to comfort. Sounds fun, a swan-dive into decadence, but it isn't really. And so visions of Lenten discipline float like oases on the horizon and I find myself craving an altogether different kind of comfort. The comfort of surrender and sacrifice, of restoring some order to the chaos I've created, of saying no to my urges once in a while. The comfort of self-care and self-discipline rather than self-indulgence.

And so Ash Wednesday swept softly by last night. I had one of my deepest floods of homesickness, so far, sitting on the back pew of our new church. DaySpring was the place I first experienced Ash Wednesday and the subdued joy of Lenten practices. I missed the cool stone walls of the chapel. I missed the sweetly-bitter scent of palm ash burned so recently the smoke still lingered in the air. I missed the familiar faces. I missed the particular feeling of a DaySpring silence. Silence has always felt different to me there. Full of promise instead of empty. Ready to spring instead of reposed.

So it's with a sigh and a feeling of deep relief and strange joy that I begin this season of Lent. Lord, help me be still, and silent, and yours. Let mine be a silence full of your promises and ready to move at your urging.