[Hope] is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart;
it transcends the world that is immediately experienced,
and is anchored somewhere beyond its horizons.
(Václav Havel, Disturbing the Peace)
A parishioner approaches me during coffee hour. We hug for a long time and I tell her I’m so sorry. She’s just lost a dear friend to a long battle with lung cancer. Although I don’t know her friend, we have been talking and praying about her journey with treatment during our regular women’s Bible study group, and the loss feels deeply sad for all of us.
“I just don’t think it was her time to go,” she says. “It doesn’t make any sense.” A person so full of strength and positivity, a single mother living (and now dying) far from her family, leaving behind a nine-year-old daughter. I’m struck by her words, especially now, in the midst of Holy Week.
I tell her that sometimes Easter doesn’t come three days after death, sometimes healing and new life takes much longer. I tell her some years, Easter Sunday rolls around only to find us still stuck in the middle of waiting, still stuck in the darkness of the tomb. Sometimes Easter isn’t about the fulfillment of hope; it’s about the reminder that hope can still be possible.
And she nods. She already knows.
Wishing you deep peace, friends, wherever this Holy Week finds your heart.
The wind was ferocious today,
howling around me as I stood among the boulders in the woods.
It pulled my voice away from me as I called to the dog.
It pushed the trees into each other,
crowding them together as they bent and chattered.
The wind demanded, not to be attended to (for what does the wind need of me)
but to be witnessed.
I thought of the Spirit, which Jesus said blows where it chooses,
blows with mystery, blows to be heard.
And I remembered that the Spirit wind speaks in many ways:
sometimes a whisper, so subtle it could be missed by distracted ears,
sometimes a roar, so impenetrable it cannot be avoided.
So it is with everyone who is born of the spirit, Jesus tells the faithful questioner.
They are coming from who-knows-where, going to who-knows-where,
endlessly liminal, always in between.
And I wonder: am I like that?
Even if I, too, also a faithful questioner, must ask again and again
How can these things be?
Even then am I also spirit-born and wind-blown?
I cannot always decipher the meanings of the Spirit’s many voices,
to translate the language of its whispers and roars.
But I can promise to stay right here, in the middle of the in-between,
to hear and bear witness.
Today looked like the shapes and shadows of trees:
an intersection of lines and curves,
a canopy of reaching branches.
In case you wondered, New England is still covered in feet of snow,
but it can’t stop this little soul from hiking through the forest and breathing in the winter air.