Dust
“for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust”
We attended our first Ash Wednesday service and began our first Lent experience at the tiny Anglican church. I was very curious about the church calendar and the meaning of these occasions to immerse ourselves in spiritual experiences but unfamiliar with them in practice. We were marked with the sign of the cross on our foreheads. We were invited, not into a burdensome requirement, a practice of piety or earning God’s favor, but a deepening of our relationship with the Spirit. This felt like more directional signage. A deepening instead of a straightening. A connection instead of a prescription.
I tucked the kids into bed that night and said good night to Josh. I needed a moment to process Something stirring inside. I needed to be alone with Silence and Hope. I had given up a lot in the past sixty days; I wasn’t sure I was ready to take a deeper posture of forfeit to practice Lent. I was desperate to make sense of these profound losses and what God intended for my life, if anything. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. Worn out with my own tears, I believed I had been in the desert place for long enough. I’m searching for the message. I’m searching for the words. I hear Bartimaeus answer Jesus, “Rabbi, I want to see.” I want to see. I want a message. Lord, give me a word. Give me the words.
Then with painstaking clarity, a singular thought flooded my mind and heart and Spirit: I will give up books for Lent. I wish I could have seen the look on my own face. I was appalled. Books were my most available friends. They were there all day, tending my mind to things other than Silence and Loneliness and Fear. They feed my soul. They feed my mind. They were my last life line. Hope was in the books.
This couldn’t be right.
And yet, I agree. And instead of picking back up the book, Sacred Rhythms, to advance on this deep question, “What do you want me to do for you?” I must sit with it. For forty days.