This was a week where the world looked dull and grey and the glass was always half empty. I reverted to ashes – and the words from a song we often use for Ash Wednesday rolled through my head without ceasing for an entire afternoon:
…we offer you attempts
the gifts not fully given, the dreams not fully dreamt
Give our wanderings direction
Give our visions wider view
An offering of ashes, an offering to You.
I may not have the words exactly right, but that’s how these things go: the last line rolls around, and finally is joined by the one before, and eventually the verse is reconstructed from the bottom up. And sometimes it’s not really the original words.
In that half-empty mindset I looked at my dresser which reflects my life. It’s awash in the remnants of not quite finished business. Needed supplies that got as far as the dresser, but the bag remains; a couple of tags removed from a shirt, but never thrown away; Earrings taken out that never made it back to the jewelry box. It reminds me that I have a lot of work to do with respect to letting go. I make the move in a new direction, but I really have trouble with leaving the past behind. Ever. There are memories to keep, I know. There are lessons learned that need to be remembered. But, how will I ever move if I’m still dragging the baggage.
Guess I’ll go clean off that dresser top. Got to start somewhere, and I don’t have the energy to think about the kitchen!
It’s well into Lent, and I’m being struck by ashes. Ashes are grey — not navy blue, or muddy brown – Grey. Like colorless. Like I feel about so many things today. I’ve been down this rabbit hole before, and I’m not going back. So, I find that I must do whatever I can to add color back in.
I’ll walk – 3, 4, maybe 5 miles this afternoon. Maybe I’ll go on a cleaning spree in the house — vacuum and declutter. Eat properly. And I’ll reflect on Ash Wednesday and ashes… and joy of Palm Sunday, the sorrow of Holy Thursday, the seeming loss of hope of Good Friday and the joy and light and color of Easter. I’ll sink into the grey of the ashes, and the way change that I always try to follow through Lent.
I could be so poetic today about the need to die to some things in order to allow new growth. About the difficulty of the unknown and how it tests trust in God. About how things in the past haven’t always turned out like I would have wanted and the realization that I’m not even sure what I want.
Instead, I’m heading out to walk and sit with my ashes and try to hear what they tell me.
Today’s Gospel (Mark 8,22-26) tells the story of Jesus healing a blind man. He takes him outside of the town, and it takes 2 passes before the man sees clearly. Then Jesus tells him to “Go home. Don’t even go into the village.”
It seems that Jesus has had to touch my eyes more than twice — and I still don’t see clearly. Well, maybe, I see clearly for brief moments. Then, those folks around me look like trees walking again.
And then – the admonition to go home. “Home is where the heart is.” Home is that place where I am completely free and safe. Home is that room inside me where I can go and just be. It seems that the path home is prayer, which opens me up to a deeper relationship with God.
Going into “The Village” seems to reflect what we do all too often — go out and share something. Keep it at a distance. Share it around so that it doesn’t have to affect me so deeply.
Next time my eyes are touched, I’ll try to remember to go home and “be” before I actually “do” anything. And hope that I do get that second look before I run off to deal with walking trees.
Today’s Gospel (Luke 10,1-9) contains the instructions to the 72 sent out by Jesus: …Carry no money bag, no sack, no sandals; and greet no one along the way…
What strikes me is that the instruction is to leave your baggage behind. I carry too much baggage with me into any situation. It’s hard to leave baggage behind. I mean, get real — sometimes I remember how someone reacted last time. Or, I know I trust this person to be less than open. And yet, Jesus tells me to go without baggage and offer peace. And, if it doesn’t work out, don’t take the bad stuff with me when I leave.
Good advice. But not so easy to carry out at times.
I found this in my drafts — guess I forgot to hit publish… or maybe it was too close to my heart when I wrote it.
A couple of years ago, my newly married daughter and her husband apparently had an interaction that overflowed to Mom. He comes from a family where he was constantly, verbally told that he was precious and loved. She, however, it seems, did not. To be honest, when she said to me “I’ve never heard you or Dad say ‘I love you’ ” my world crashed around me. The sky fell.
After a bit of discussion (when I found my voice), she admitted that maybe I had told her that I love her when she was growing up – but she didn’t give ground on her dad. And, I made a change. In the 2 or so years since that conversation (it was a phone call), I’ve tried to never end a call with her, or her brothers, or my mom, without actually saying “I love you.” I’ve even tried it with my husband. It’s a good practice to get into — and in most of those cases, the practice now goes both ways. Hallelujah!
Actions are important, but words matter as well.