It’s not that I don’t need it. God has been showing me places I hide and calling me to come out of hiding. I’m owning things I’ve needed to own for a long time, and stepping more firmly into the next stages of my calling.
But still. Most days I’m grateful to see more of the sun in these lengthening days. Some days feel plenty long already.
Then I need to remember:
Lent is about more than seeing our sin; it’s about savoring our smallness.
It’s about more than turning from our sin; it’s about turning back, as small and humble creatures, to the One who made us by hand and knows us by heart and loves us.
Might learning to celebrate our smallness take care of a lot of our sin?
Pride, greed, even worry—it’s hard for me to think of a sin that isn’t somehow rooted in my forgetfulness that I’m a small and fragile creature held by my Creator who delights in me.
The Lenten roses have been wide open for weeks, their pink flowers calling to me: “You’re His creature too, grounded in the same love in which we stand.” Purple crocuses and tiny rain-spotted daffodils nod their bright heads in the morning breeze. The buds on the cherry trees are ready to burst and robins are singing for the joy of the morning, nineteen of them hopping about on the lawn, stopping to listen for their next meal.
Maybe part of the turning and returning of Lent is learning to sing along with other small ones.
Sing to the LORD with thanksgiving;
make melody to our God on the lyre.
He covers the heavens with clouds,
prepares rain for the earth,
makes grass grow on the hills.
He gives to the animals their food,
and to the young ravens when they cry.
His delight is not in the strength of the horse,
nor his pleasure in the speed of a runner;
but the LORD takes pleasure in those who fear him,
in those who hope in his steadfast love.