Lenten Practice Check-in: Thursday's Reflection

Ash Wednesday was February 26. 

In my journal that day I wondered what my Lenten practice might be. I was reading Marcus Borg's book, Convictions, written when he was 70, and he ponders how Ash Wednesday is a reminder that we are all mortal and marked for death. 

I wondered if I could use the 40 days of Lent to prepare for my own death. I asked myself what I would not want to leave undone and what might be helpful for my survivors. I had a number of ideas.

One was to complete, page by page, a workbook called I'm Dead, Now What? Important Information about My Belongings, Business Affairs, and Wishes. Peter Pauper Press

Another was to dedicate myself to working on my memoir. Writing and revising two more chapters seemed like a reasonable goal for that time. 

A third plan was to thin out my bookshelves in the garret; to decrease the numbers of books in my spirituality and theology library. The more I eliminate now the easier it will be for my loved ones later on. We have many Little Free Libraries in our neighborhood where I could donate my books. 

On Ash Wednesday I had no idea how life would change. The week after I received the ashes on my forehead, my father fell a number of times and soon was confined to bed and is now in his end-of-life days. No longer was I thinking about my own death, but the focus became my Dad, as he approaches his death.

And, of course, no one needs to remind us of the changes we are all experiencing because of the Covid-19 crisis, and the fear and paralysis most of us confront. My Lenten practices seem fitting, but my ability to fulfill them was limited, emotionally and practically.

All was not lost, however, and most days I kneeled in front of one of my bookshelves and book by book decided what to keep and what was ready for a new owner. My goal was to eliminate one book every day. 40 books. 

I am happy to report that I went beyond that goal and my bookshelves are now 90 books lighter. My bookshelves are breathing a bit easier. 

On Easter Sunday I opened each book, in order to erase my name from bookplates or a front page, but all of a sudden I started second guessing myself. Maybe I will read this book again. Or to be honest, maybe I will actually read this book for the first time. Or I loved this book I can really give it up? 

And that's when it became a real Lenten practice. It was time to let go, time to surrender, time to focus on what it is I most need to live a life connected to God as I move closer, day by day, to my own death. 

I still want to continue work on my memoir and also on the BIG BLUE BOOK, and I trust that will be possible eventually, but in the meantime each day as I return home from my Dad's apartment I take detours, cruise down neighborhood blocks looking for Little Free Libraries. This week, as I dash from my car to one of those charming boxes with an armload of books, I have felt like the Easter Bunny hiding eggs. I trust my books will land exactly where they need to be. 

And I trust that I am doing what I can do, need to do right now, and doing that is the heart of spiritual practice.  

An Invitation
Did you have a Lenten Practice? How has that fared these last weeks? What are your current spiritual practices? I would love to know. 

Looking for the Profound Thought: Thursday's Reflection

I am frustrated as I begin writing today's post. I have this vague idea of what I want to write about. In fact, I was awake thinking about it last night, when I would have preferred being blissfully asleep. But now this morning I can't find the reference I think I need to make my point. 

I thought it was in a charming little book I finished reading a few days ago. Let Evening Come, Reflections on Aging by Mary C. Morrison. She says so many profound things, but says them simply. Few words. Big meanings. 

                   We will come, each of us, to see our life
                   as the whole that it is. Events that seemed
                   random will show themselves to be parts
                   of a coherent whole. Decisions that we were
                   hardly aware of making will reveal themselves
                   as significant choices, and we can honestly and
                   dispassionately regret the poor ones and rejoice
                   in the good ones. We can call up emotions that
                   seemed devastating in their time, and recollect
                   them in tranquillity, forgiving others and 
                   ourselves.  p. 30

                  We do not know. We cannot know. But meanwhile
                  we can watch what we do so we can find out who
                  we are before we come to the end of the long day
                  that is our life. p. 128

Somewhere I read about giving up a pleasure, something we enjoy or even love, before we are quite ready to do that or even need to do it, and that idea seemed like something Morrison might have said in her book. I have paged through the short book several times now, almost re-reading the whole thing, and I can't find it. Did I dream it? I can't believe this is an original thought on my part.

I was going to connect it with the idea of giving something up for Lent--chocolate or Diet Coke or watching Netflix--an idea that has sort of gone out of fashion. Now, it seems we are encouraged to add something of consequence during the the season of Lent. More prayer time. Doing something nice for a stranger everyday. Giving our time to a charity. Still, I wonder about the value of giving something up. 

I check my list of books I have read recently to see if that gives me a clue. I just finished reading for the third or fourth time A Writer's Paris, A Creative Journey for the Creative Mind by Eric Maisel. I've underlined all sorts of meaningful advice, like "Get up, even if you don't feel like it." (p. 152), but not what I am looking for. 

Then I browsed through a book I am using during my morning meditation time, Simplifying the Soul, Lenten Practices to Renew Your Spirit by Paula Huston. I think I am getting close when I see I have circled the words "spiritual recalibration," and "soul simplification," and "energy budget." Good thoughts that lead me to other thoughts, but not quite what I think I remember.

I give up. Maybe eventually I will stumble on the idea I wanted to offer. Perhaps not. In the meantime I am humbled. I don't have much to offer today, except for the awareness that I often feel lost and muddled and way below the poverty line that measures profundity.

                   Mystery--it is all around us, and we do not
                   know it. But sometimes when we give it time
                   and space, whether in deep peace or great 
                   anguish, it will come up behind us, or meet
                   us face to face, or move within us, changing 
                   the way we see everything, and filling our
                   hearts with joy and an upspringing of love
                   that needs no direct object because everything
                   is its object. p. 87, Morrison

Pray for me. I'll pray for you. 

An Invitation
What missing piece are you looking for today? I would love to know. 

Being Invisible: Thursday's Reflection

Gauzy panels of sheer organza hang in the chancel of our church. Veils. 

I gasped when I saw them for the first time, for they are striking in their simplicity. But they are also an invitation during this season of Lent.

According to the written explanation included in our Sunday bulletin the installation "invites us to ask what we see and don't see...What is hidden? What do we need to see or understand in order to deepen our trust in the resurrection and to be more faithful in our response to God's grace?" 

Powerful questions, indeed, and I have been sitting with them during my morning meditation time. In addition, something else has arisen in me: the gifts of invisibility. 

A story: Many years ago when I was in my early 50's I remember being in a Panera waiting to place an order. I was the next person in line. Standing behind me was a young man in his late 20's or early 30's. When the cashier had finished the transaction with the person in front of me, I started to step forward, but the cashier said, "Can I help you, SIR?" Instead of deferring, not wanting to cause a fuss and after all I had time, it was no big deal to wait a bit longer, I politely, but firmly said, "Excuse me, but it is my turn. I am the next person in line."

She said, and this is important, "Oh, I didn't see you." 

Did she not see me because I am a woman? Because I was older and, in fact, an older woman? Or shorter than the young man behind me? Or what?

The fact was I was invisible. I was not seen. I was behind a veil. 

Now almost 70 I am aware of how often older people are invisible. Obviously, for the most part I don't think that is a good thing, but I also think there may be some gifts that come with invisibility, when I see, but am not seen.

Remember the cloak of invisibility in the Harry Potter books? Well often Harry and his buddies called upon the magic of the cloak when they needed protection, but once wrapped in its powers they could continue to see and hear what was going on around them. Without interruption or interference. Without question. Without attempts to change their minds. Without judgement. 

With invisibility comes spaciousness to observe, to listen, to take in the world with all our senses. To be a quiet and loving presence--even if no one realizes it. With invisibility comes humility and tolerance. With invisibility comes the opportunity to go within, to see the rest of myself, the parts I don't see when I am operating in full visibility. 

Now I hasten to add I am not promoting subservience or submissiveness. I advocate using one's voice and being an active presence in the world. However, sometimes being invisible leads to a new way of seeing and of being and of knowing ourselves as God's beloved. 

An Invitation

When have you felt invisible? Beyond the shadow behind that veil, was there any light? I would love to know.