I dedicate this post to my dear Aunt Sara, who finished her race this past week and is now at home with her Savior. She was an amazing lady and would, I hope, have enjoyed today’s thoughts.
Farewell for now, Aunt Sara.
Last week’s post recalled young Ruth’s complicated relationship with fasting. I ended with the reminder that fasting during Lent is an invitation into growth, not a punishment.
Since Lent gives one HEAPS of opportunities to think about fasting (so many, many hours and minutes and seconds), let’s just continue in this vein, shall we?
(If that doesn’t sound fun to you, there’s another cool poem at the end – hot off the press – so stay with me.)
As I was praying for a friend last week, I realized mid-prayer that what I was asking for on her behalf was a bit of help I needed desperately myself. It was something along the lines of seeing every day as a gift to be received with gratitude, rather than a trial to be “got through”.
It struck me that this is another facet of my awkward dance with fasting. I have two bad habits with fasting: the first is to grit my teeth, put my head down, and just . . . wait until it’s over. The second is to fill the time with activity so I can forget that I’m fasting.
Both of these coping strategies remove one from the present moment.
Twice last week, I was staring at someone who was talking to me, only to realize that I had no idea what they’d been saying for the past minute or two. My mind had wandered into one of my favorite distractions: logistics. I’d been planning what I would wear and what I would cook for the next few days.
Pointless. Shameful. Downright rude.
Since one of the main purposes of fasting is to quiet oneself in order to listen, it should be clear why these habits are counterproductive at best.
My prayer for my friend was, at root, asking for a heightened ability to be present – to greet each moment with joy, expecting to meet God in it and to find more reasons to praise Him. And fasting, though not usually associated with joy, is a powerful aide in this journey towards present-ness.
Think about it: in the quiet after distractions are removed – even the nice, tasty, comforting distractions – how much easier could it be to hear the still, small voice of the One who is always, always calling to us in love? When we release the supports we have fashioned with our own hands, won’t our hands then be open to receive the new gifts Love has been waiting to give us?
Oddly enough, this principle of being present is important in writing.
As I continue to awaken to my need for present-ness (an ongoing, lifelong journey), it is becoming clear to me that my coping strategies are detrimental to my writing goals. One must be – or, at least, I must be – quiet in order to write. I must be present in order to write. If I can’t listen to someone sitting across from me, sharing their experiences, how can I expect to hear my characters as they try to tell me their story in my head?
Growth! Gratitude! Great writing!
Isn’t Lent the BEST?
(Yes, that is sarcasm . . . mostly.)
As I faced the beginning of Lent two weeks ago, I saw an image in my mind that struck me as comforting.
I was standing in a rocky valley looking into a dark place – a tunnel, or an overgrown part of the valley, or just a hole in the side of the mountain. I knew Lent would lead me through it, and I was scared; I wanted to find another way. Then, in my mind’s eye, I saw a figure I knew to be Christ, standing at the entrance and holding out His hand to me. This was no punishment – no “Get in that dark place and think about what you’ve done, and I’ll see you at Easter” dictum. He was inviting me to take the journey with Him, and He would be with me through it.
I had no need to be afraid.
Here is the poem that grew out of that image. I pray it braces you for the rest of the journey.
Lent: The Invitation
I came upon a howling void
The valley stretched before my feet
I knew within I’d surely meet
The needs I’d striven to avoid
The need within, as yet unknown
In depth or breadth, much like the call
Without – which, if I gave my all
Would clamor still: unmet, alone
Since either need would strip me bare
And both, I feared, would rob me blind
I thought to leave the void behind
And turn aside to other care
More light – when there, upon the brink
Of doubt appeared a shining prince
Who knew my dread – had seen me wince
He said: “Do you believe you’ll sink
In darkness if you go this way?
Take heart: I have been through and back
To fetch you – see, I’ve made a track
That leads straight through till break of day.”
“Good sir,” I answered, “I would rather
Find the dawn the long way ’round
Where comfort’s thick upon the ground
Than try the void, where shadows gather.”
The prince replied with outstretched hand:
“Dear heart, though you may find a road
More pleasant, you will bear the load
Alone. This is no stern command
Or ultimatum offered you.
The choice is yours: to try your best
To pass, unaided, every test
That meets you – or, to seek a new
Beginning at the other end
Of want. Though all you see is doubt
Believe you’ll never be without
A guide, for I will be your friend.”
I came upon a howling void
The valley stretched beyond my sight
I took the hand of living Light
To seek the need by Love destroyed
I so needed these thoughts today. Thank you for being open and honest about your own struggles. You give hope. . .
Thank you, Ruth.
Beautifully written as always. Thanks for dedicating this to our sweet Sara George!!