His Light Shines in the Darkness
Searching for God during Lent
He leads me into his office, a to-go coffee cup in his hands. I know what’s inside the cup. It’s Ash Wednesday and he’s prepared a new offering of ashes for those who missed the Ashes Eve Service last night. It’s why I’ve made my way to the church, I want to receive the ashes—the sign of the cross.
I’m crying. I can’t seem to stop the steady stream of tears that started the moment I set foot in the door and climbed the stairs to the church office. I pause at the top of the stairs, take a wobbly breath and try and stop the flow. Wiping my hands across my cheeks and giving my tear-stained glasses a quick clean, I make my way down the hall.
My friend sits at her desk and I look at her through the pass-thru window, she looks up and asks “how are you doing?” She actually looks me in the eye and waits for me to respond. She is genuinely interested in my answer.
Dammit I’m crying again. She asks if she can give me a hug and I nod my consent. Wrapping me in her arms she tells me, “you know at Disney the staff members who play the part of the Princess are told that they don’t withdraw from a hug until the child withdraws.” I’m not sure she realizes that she has given me the gifts of consent and agency. I hold on and cry softly on her shoulder. I manage a small chuckle and tell her she would make a great Disney Princess as she commits to a long and comforting embrace.
I still can’t stop the tears and once I’m in the Pastoral Care Office I’m invited to take a moment to breathe, to find my centre and I’m prayed over. He prays that I will be able to know that God has been with me on every step of my journey thus far and that I would know God’s presence as I step into this season of Lent.
“From dust you have come, and to dust you will return. May you know you are God’s beloved,” his enunciation is marked by his finger tracing the cross on my forehead, the grit of the ashes settling into my pores. He prepared the ashes just before I arrived at the church, he explains, using the palm fronds from last year’s Palm Sunday that have been dried and stored for Ash Wednesday.
I’m suddenly aware that what started as a joyous occasion is now reduced to ash.
Brian pulled out my Lent wreath yesterday and this morning I made room for it in my office. I place a candle in the first hole and it’s a far as I get. I don’t trim the wick. I don’t search for my lighter. I don’t do anything. The brand new Lent devotional from one of my favourite authors is on my desk. I make no move to pick it up and read the first reading.
I go through motions of setting up what I think is supposed to happen over the next 40 days and I realize that’s it, that’s all I’ve got. I can’t seem to find the space to read the readings or listen to the podcasts. My counsellor tells me that there are people who really feel the need to connect to the themes of passion and suffering through Lent. She also tells me that others who have lived pain don’t necessarily to have to step into the space of Christ’s suffering to identify with it. They have already lived it and have known what it is to have Christ step into their pain bear it with them. This resonates deeply.
It’s 9:30PM when I sit down to write this. The only light is the from the candles, including the singular one in my Lent wreath and the glow of my iPad screen. The brand new devotional is going to stay closed this year, next year is soon enough to crack its spine. I don’t need someone else’s words, as beautiful as they will be, to rescue me. I need God. I need to make space to see all the ways that God is already with me, caring for me, protecting me.
I breathe deep, the light of a single candle my focus:
Inhale: God’s light shines in the darkness
Exhale: And the darkness can never extinguish it
Thank you for this. 💕🦋
❤️❤️ beautiful