Recalibration by Philippa Linton

What a hard Lent this is.  As we enter Holy Week, the entire human race is undergoing a traumatic testing before we see the genuine signs of resurrection and hope, when at last the terrible effects of this virus start to slow.  

During this time of self-isolation, I am diverting a lot of my energy into my creativity … only it’s the artistic side of me, rather than the writing side.  I am practicising my craft – only it’s with my prized Faber-Castell polychromos coloured pencils rather than my writing pen (or, more likely, my electronic mouse).

I need to embrace both the artist and the writer in me.  When I was a little girl, I wrote stories and drew pictures.  And yet somehow, for many years I neglected both these gifts.  I could have done so much more, written so much more, created so much more … if I hadn’t doubted my gifting, and lost my confidence at times … if I hadn’t been diverted and distracted by unhelpful idols and blockages in my spiritual life … if I’d been more obedient to God … if, if, if.  If. 

Time to recalibrate.  Time to take stock.  Time to be disciplined.  Time to clear out the clutter and welcome the fresh breezes of spring.  Time to breathe in the spaciousness, and graciousness, of God. 

I wrote the following poem eight years ago.  It turned out to be weirdly prophetic – the day after I wrote it marked the beginning of my housemate’s succumbing to an inoperable cancer.  She was in hospital for the entirety of Lent, and she died a week after Easter.  She died as she had lived, with peace, strength and a radiant love for Christ.  It was a privilege to sit vigil with her as she took her final journey. 

Today I have no new words to offer – so in this hard season for ourselves and our beautiful planet, I offer this instead.

Ash Wednesday

Into the wilderness.

Something has driven me,

thirsty and hungry.

The valley of all desolations,

the criss-crossing paths of another’s suffering.

I’d rather blot it out but

heavy clouds are massing.

Rain.

At least there will be rain

in this desert.

Alone on the mountain.

Only bare scarred rock

and the pale sheet of sky

and the trickle of a spring, nearby.

I can sense, not see,

the wind that can shatter,

the quake that can break.

And all around me, the voice.

And within me, a voice.

The real me. The eternal You.

I will not hide away.

See, Lord, this time I’m not hiding.

Philippa Linton, Ash Wednesday, 22nd February 2012

Looking to hope and resurrection in a hard place.  (Pixabay)