Fresh snow and ashes
A blessing for your Lenten journey — for all of us not quite in the mood for ashes
Oh dear friends,
Ash Wednesday was the first day of Lent, and I was not in the mood for ashes. And sure enough, shortly after receiving my ash cross on my forehead, I was rushed by ambulance to the ER. With a cross on my head! Wow. Speaking of reminders of mortality :-)
The good news is, I am back home — still a bit shaky, but well enough to finish this midweek blessing, which was meant to slip into your inbox on, well… Ash Wednesday.
I will need some time to digest what just happened. For now, I am grateful.
Grateful that we live close to medical services. Grateful for David, my ER doctor, who was so kind and knowledgeable and understanding. Grateful for Mohammed, my nurse, who was born in Egypt and only calls himself “Moe” on his name tag — and we all know why.
When my brain fog lifted, I chatted some Arabic with him — fragments left over from my time in the Middle East. He smiled, and we connected on that deeper level of heartbreak which machines do not measure, but which so many — born and not born in this country — carry.
I am grateful for the two Bens, the first responders who made sure I was okay. I am grateful for our neighbor who sat with our sleeping child through the night so Chuck could be with me.
I am grateful to be back home to send this Ash Wednesday post off, in all its irony of what unfolded in the last 24 hours. And grateful, too, to have been given a theme for this Lenten season I can no longer ignore: to care for our broken hearts — mine and yours.
**
We arrived at Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, and I am not in the mood for ashes.
Fresh snow is falling again here in Minnesota, drowning out the first hints of spring that dared to show themselves last week.
Our six-year-old was not in the mood to say farewell to our Christmas tree the whole new year. It still stood in our library, scenting the air with spruce, its dried needles quietly surrendering to the floor.
How do you explain Ash Wednesday to a child still holding on to Christmas?
While she and her dad carefully took down the ornaments she had hung on Christmas Eve, I sat at my desk biting my nails, watching the snow fall, feeling a certain emptiness creep in.
Who needs to go into the desert for forty days when the world is already burning?
In my poking around, I stumbled over Diana Butler Bass ‘s Ash Wednesday reflection and felt a deep sigh rise in me.
“I am in no mood for ashes,” she writes.
“…I’ve been so gloomy for so many months that it is taking a toll on my soul. Events of the last fifteen months, in particular, have weighed my heart unlike any time in my life. Honestly, if you tell me that I need to lament my sins and wretchedness and remember death, I may just start crying or yell at you.”
Bless you, dear Diana, for giving words to our weariness.
For naming what so many of us feel.
And perhaps this is where Lent begins —
not in zeal,
not in heroic resolve,
but in honesty.
And still — tonight we will walk toward the ashes.
We will step forward to receive the cross upon our foreheads.
We will walk back through the freshly fallen snow.
And I will join my daughter in eating some of it — something she always does, and something I cannot quite keep her from doing.
And perhaps this is what the Lenten season is about, after all.
To tend the spark through the snowstorm,
to keep the Divine light shining even in the dark.
To join the grand lamentation of creation still in slumber, waiting for Spring to arrive.
To join the lament of the weary pilgrims, tired from the walk.
To join Job, complaining loudly about unfathomable suffering,
unwilling to be easily consoled.
We enter this season as reluctantly as C.S. Lewis once described his own conversion — dragged, perhaps, but not absent.
**
And so this (mid)weekly blessing comes to you humbly, as all blessings do, from a torn heart still clinging to hope.
This blessing seeks the heavy-hearted
who have lamented long before the liturgy told them to.
The one navigating the storm while the snow is still falling,
not giving up on Spring.This blessing comes to those
who will show up anyway.
Who will tend the small spark
through the storm.To those who join creation’s deep lament,
like the seed dying in the soil
before it springs into new greening.This blessing comes to all
who sit beside Job and refuse easy consolation.To all who walk toward the tomb
with trembling —
trusting, even faintly,
the wise women’s voices
that the tomb will become
the womb
birthing new beginnings.This blessing seeks
the weary pilgrim,
the reluctant disciple,
the caregiver…
and also the one
who still eats fresh snow.May the ashes not crush you.
May they mark you gently.
May the spark beneath the snow remain.
May this desert become a place of quiet tending
and fresh greening.And if you are not in the mood for ashes,
come, sit by me.
You are not alone.
Peace and Blessings always, Almut / Weary Pilgrim, with Chuck and little one
PS: Click the heart at the top and bottom of this email so we know you have been here. Leave a line which moved your heart in the comment, or leave a response or question. We tend to each and every one :-)
Lent at The Cloister
For the forty days ahead, I am opening a chat window, a cloistered gathering space for our sustaining members who long for some communion during this time of solitude:
#40DaysOfJoyAmidstSorrow
A quiet gathering place to share a joy. A sorrow. A photo that holds light in the dark. A poem. A prayer request. When ever the spirit moves you.
I am planning to share a daily joy as my Lenten practice :-)
You do not need to do so. You can show up when ever the Spirit moves you. Nothing polished. Nothing curated. Just tending the fire together.
You can enter our Lenten gathering place below:
Throughout Lent we will continue with Midweek Blessings and some weekend reflections, inspired by the wisdom teachers from before us and reflections of writers from our community (feel free to make suggestions!)
Together we walk toward Holy Week and into our Passion Week Consolations — where the ethereal tune of J.S. Bach’s Passion oratorio will once again sooth our weary pilgrims’ hearts.
We walk unwilling, perhaps. But we walk together.
**
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Our next Moral Monday circle for our sustaining members will be March 9, 6:30 pm (CT). We do not meet in February. Join us for our Winter Solitude instead :-)
Reminder: Our Founder’s Retreat Winter Solitude takes place on
Feb 20 and Feb 28, 10:30 am - 1:30 pm (CT)
“What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude.
To walk inside yourself...- that is what one must be able to attain.”
--- Rainer Maria Rilke
Inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke’s words, this 3-hour zoom retreat at the threshold to Spring will guide us inward through silent meditation, contemplative readings, journaling, and shared reflection. Together, we will explore a wisdom text on the deeper self, opening space for self-discovery and gentle communal connection.
Our Winter Solitude is offered once a year as a token of gratitude to members of our Founder’s Circle. It is a tiny-group retreat (limited to around 10 participants), facilitated by Chuck and me.
Paid subscribers — and others who feel drawn to join — are warmly welcome to participate through an offering, or by choosing to join the Founder’s Circle (sliding scale), which includes two live Zoom retreats this year.
Our lists for both dates are closed by now. If you have RSVPed but not heard from me please respond directly to this email. If you would love to join late, write me also :-)
Hope, Our hope is in Him, redeemer, healer, saviour, overcomer...🕊💜
"...the tomb will become the womb birthing new beginnings..." I've never thought in these terms. I now have something new to reflect on in the 40 days of Lent. Thank you for that blessing.