A Prayer for Lent

 In 40 days,

    we'll stand beside the stone

    dropped in the dew-wet grass

    beside our dew-wet feet

    before our tear-wet eyes,

    while dawn and bird dawn-chorus

    echo back our joys.

 

Today, our eyes are dry

    and we forget, between

    the dishes and the wash machine

    majestic sweetness 

    in Your voice.

    We cannot see beyond the screen

    the darkness of Gethsemane,

    or feel beyond our creaking chair

    the heavy cross you had to bear.

Teach us again to taste and see,

    the goodness of Your body,

    drained of blood, but not of Love,

    which bids us follow

    till we reach again,

    the fallen stone,

    the folded linen clothes,

    the moment when

    we turn again,

    hearing Your voice.

Waiting for Redwings

Today I felt a stirring in the air outside, even from the house - a slight change in the bird songs, a bright haze in the air. Gazing out the window at the damp black tree branches and wisping clouds, I remembered the redwing blackbirds. They always came when you were sure it was a little too early to expect spring, sometimes descending flight-weary on the feeders to gobble seeds with snow-dusted wings. Then from the tree tops, would come that wild cheering call as they flared their red shoulders and laughed winter to scorn. 

I thought today I could cry for joy to hear one blackbird sing. Was it about now that they came? Then, I remembered the nature log on the hutch shelf - a notebook kept with sporadic devotion to a few details, mostly first sightings, new species. I went for it, and there, last year on February 6 was "First redwing blackbird call". Today is February 5. Another year noted the 9th. It might be soon now. 

What was the value of that dated scribble? A remembrance? A comparison? A reason to hope? Perhaps it was simply that the act of writing three words had so much potential return for the cost of effort. The returning seasons are one of God's guarantees. Noting them marks my place a little more firmly in that promised cycle. 



Will I cry for joy when the first redwing sings? I don't know. I might write a poem. But I'll probably write it in the notebook.