The end of Lent: when all you have has run out

I cannot do it. Cannot keep up with the hunger. I cannot feed them all.

The bird feeder swings empty again in the harsh winds of March, and those who have not forsaken it by now hop about the tree with wondering eyes fixed on me, their supposed benefactress. But the supply has run out, and I am too weary and poor to replenish it. The hunger of winter outpaces my resources.

Simply to feed the birds - am I too feeble, even for this?

My joy turns sour. My ears turn cold. My kindness falls short.

Yet despite my empty vessel, the sun shines and the jays still flash blue and the chickadees sing. They have a Provider. My humble offering will not, cannot, sustain these hundreds of wings. It was never meant to.

Perhaps they have been the ones sustaining me, all this time. Here at the feeder, beauty has been gathered into my view. I have seen the colours of joy. I have heard the tongues of heaven. I have been graced with the soft brush of feathers in the snow. I thought I was doing them a favour. Perhaps this feeder has been God's gift to me all along. And he keeps giving. He keeps showing favour. He keeps sending the birds.

No matter how much I prepare, the realities I hunger for are still gifts from above. That is what Lent reveals. That at the end of the day, we are all empty handed. All in need of grace. All in need of manna.

I alone cannot create what I wish to be. But I can look to my Creator with an open mouth. And tonight, as he breaks the bread, I can swallow the grain that must fall to the earth and die. As I am brought face to face with my emptiness, once again, I remember,

"The LORD sustains all who fall
And raises up all who are bowed down.
The eyes of all look to You,
And You give them their food in due time.
You open Your hand
And satisfy the desire of every living thing." (Psalm 145:15-16)

All are welcome to gather in the swinging shadow of emptiness, where the ground is still cold and barren. He will open his hands to our insatiable, piercing hunger, and offer himself as bread for our need. Here at the foot of a leafless tree, he will spread a banquet in the presence of his enemies. From this cracked grain, he will give life to the world.

Here at the empty feeder, we will be fed.


~lg

Strike-anywhere love

On cold days, remember,

Love is a strike-anywhere match. 

Even the irritation of this day is friction for the fire. When life rubs rough, bring your kindling and pray for the the crimson tip of powder to explode. Either be frost-bitten raw, or be lit, and thaw. Some days love is purely a matter of survival. Light up, or freeze out. Light up, or die.

This is the miracle: that in consummation lies salvation. You will surely splinter but love will leap into flame and spread molten life into the numbness of your winter. Love will revive.

So bring your burnt out ends. Bring your soggy offering. Bring your stone cold heart. Bring your dying embers. Bring your last bit of hope and throw yourself against the flint. You will ignite.

And maybe someone else's survival depends on you today. Maybe they've used their last desperate flare, and are simply waiting for rescue before the dark falls. Maybe your torch will light their eyes, and bring warmth to weary bones.

Maybe yours will spark the night on fire, till every signal hill burns and blazes the way to the great lighted city.

One match is all it takes. Anywhere, anywhere. Doesn't matter if it's your last. There's an eternal flame that outlasts the cold, outshines the night, and overcomes the darkness. This is strike-anywhere love. Light up, and live.



~lg

First Snow and the Grace of Morning

I am wakened in the grey light by her whisper. “Mom, I need to show you something. Something that happened outside in the night. It’s not what you expected.”

My sleepy eyes come in to focus on her smiling face. She points to the window, eager with her secret.

Snow.

I had known of its possibility, looking at the forecast last night. Yet it still surprises me now, as the first snow of the season always does. The white magic has gently coated the autumn world, icing the grass, frosting the pumpkins on the porch, dusting the carrot tops dozing in the garden.

Too often I am guilty of seeing the world through mud-coloured glasses. But this morning, my vision is wiped clear. Children have a way of waking you to wonder. It is their peculiar and powerful gift. To have their eyes – this is a grace of God. To know winter’s first kiss as pure joy – this, too, is a grace of God.

The sun breaks through the grey clouds over the hill, and the crystal covering sparkles even as the golden leaves are set on fire. The kids have already raced outside, snowsuits over pajamas, convinced that God sent the snow for their own mittened pleasure. Perhaps they are right.

And so this Monday morning we begin again. Begin with wonder, begin with grace, begin with new-fallen joy.

This is the mercy of each morning, if we have eyes to see.

“The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;

his mercies never come to an end;

they are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.”

Lamentations 3:22-23

~lg

When the Snow Crunches

At minus twenty, the sound of snow beneath my boots changes – it's the sound of my childhood.

When the snow crunches, winter has settled in, and no use fighting it. Its tune is infinitely more joyful than the slushy shuffle-step of warmer days. It is the sound of Dad splitting chunks of spruce and pine on the big chopping block, of chickadees seed-diving and scolding the squirrels, of a cardboard Polar Express racing through the backyard after dark. It is the sound of my fingernail scratching peepholes in the frost of my bedroom window, and the breathless hush of northern lights over the Slave River. It is a single sigh – the beauty of resignation.

When the snow crunches, we have an understanding, winter and I. Our friendship goes a long way back, to the dimmest of infant remembrance – me and my red parka tumbling off the toboggan in the shadow of Bear Rock. It embraced me from the start, and I had no reason to let go. There is freedom in bringing out the long johns and Sorels, which is the only real way to dance with the season. For after resignation comes delight. When the snow crunches my toes still tingle with the frostbite of our more intimate moments.

At minus twenty, the sound echoes in some deeper soul chamber, formed by a reality that chose me before memory, and shaped me like fast water flowing under the ice. No use fighting winter when the snow crunches. 

~lg