|section: "St. Francis in the Desert" - Giovanni Bellini|
What if the ice we tread is just too thin?
What if we can't escape the squall we're in?
What if our hearts of stone are permanent? - "Even in Winter", Audrey Assad
Living in Michigan, I know a thing or two about seemingly endless winters. We've been known to get snow in April and even May. In this same vein, it seems as if my soul and therefore my life are in a place where it is always Lent and never Easter.
I wake up far too early, and pray. I pray in the car, going to and from work. I look out my window at work, and see the homeless in the park across the street and I pray. I'm still on thin ice, surrounded by squall after squall. I fear having a heart of stone, of becoming stuck in a place where all is penance and fasting, but with no Resurrection and redemption in sight.
I wonder why I have been given the crosses I have to bear, when others seem to have little or no cross (and yes, I know this is not true, but it seems that way some days, doesn't it?). I think I've done everything I've been asked, everything I'm supposed to do, everything that's been asked of me, and I still have nothing but the taste of ashes in my mouth.
I know it is enough to be faithful, and not "successful" - at least in the world's estimation of success. I know it is enough to pray, and to expect nothing in return. I know this.
Yet I still wonder what it would be like to truly feel the honest and utter joy of Easter morning. In my heart, it is always Lent.