Limping to New Life

I Will Arise

‘Weary and weak—accept my weariness.

Weary and weak and downcast in soul,

With hope growing less and less,

And with the goal

Distant and dim—accept my sore distress...’

My confession to Father Justin? One ragged soul on the eve of Easter. Maybe disappointed me more than God. But my raggedness was not without consequence. If the Church intends Lent to slow us and sensitize our receptors—breaking up fallow ground for new life—I didn’t get the memo. Or heed it. 

From Ash Wednesday on, I sprinted throughout the states and India—blogging in waiting rooms, praying and fasting on the run, almsgiving on steroids. Holy Week ended with a stumble over the finish line. Empty tomb. Check. ‘It is finished’ indeed.

I normally love the rhythm of Lent: travel pause and deepening reflection on the need to get saved. Again. Chilly mornings with just a hint of green and the red flash of a robin or cardinal—Missouri at her best.

This year, even the whacked-out weather contributed to my arrhythmia: January was Arctic then the fairest of Februarys. Fruit trees flowered then froze, over and over. Counterfeit spring!

Imbalance: ongoing fallout from Mike Bickle’s refusal to discipline his sons, Pope Francis’ confusing, ill-advised candor, Biden and Trump invoking Jesus as a cover for their power lust. In the mirror of these larger-than-life figures, I caught a glimpse of my bloodshot eyes and a wife wearied by her agitated husband.

I loved Father Justin’s counsel. After exchanging Jesus’ mercy for my sins, he shared: ‘Each Lent is different, and God’s okay with that. You are broken ground for new life. Let Him be for you what you can’t be.’

I thought about Jesus who held His tongue and handed Himself over to bad guys as to flip the whole thing around. He did the heavy lifting; He did it for me. All He asks is that I welcome His gift of life. In my weakness. As open as I can be. Unfathomable grace.

Only Jesus can turn a ragged end into a new start. Easter.

‘Only one thing I knew, Thy love of me,

One only thing I know, Thy sacred same

Love of me full and free,

A craving flame

Of selfless love of me which burns in Thee.

How can I think of Thee, and yet grow chill,

Of Thee, and yet grow cold and nigh to death?

Reenergize my will,

Rebuild my faith,

I will arise and run,

Thou giving me breath.’

  Christina Rossetti

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