It is Superbowl Sunday and the sun is brilliant against a pale blue winter sky. I feel the urge to get into the yard and pull some weeds. Our backyard ground is soft from the month-long rains and moss seems to be the only thing alive. However, there is a spot in the yard that has crocuses and the sun opens up the yellows, blues and the purple flowers in such a way that I am surprised. Surprised because Spring has seemed to arrive just days before Ash Wednesday and the start of Lent.

Just as the small crocus is a sign of Spring, ashes are for Christians the sign of our baptism and who we are right now. We are marked with ash and told to, "remember that you are dust, and to dust you will surely return." It is the summons to take the next 40 days to remember what we promised at our baptism and to make the Gospel urgent in our lives today.  

Ashes remind us to let go of those things that keep us apart from God. Lent can seem exhausting but it can also be a surprising time when the winter ground is soft. These 40 days are calling us to simply and honestly recommit to be open to what makes us most alive in Christ. It is the start of another season whereby we learn how to pray, to fast in some ways that will tell us what we really hunger for, to give to those in greater need and not expect anything except the mercy of God.

It is a brilliant time to be a follower of Jesus.

I offer an edited version  of a poem by Harriet Becker Stowe as you begin your Lenten journey towards Easter.

The Crocus

Beneath the sunny autumn sky, with gold leaves dropping round,

We sought, my little friend and I, the consecrated ground. 

Around the soft green swelling mound,

We scooped the earth away and buried deep the crocus bulbs.

"These roots are dry, and brown, and sere; Why plant them here?", he said,

"To leave them, all winter long, so desolate and dead."

"Dear child, within each sere dead form there sleeps a living flower,

And angel-like it shall arise In spring's returning hour.

Ah, deeper down cold, dark and chill we buried our heart's flower,

But angel-like shall he arise in Spring's immortal hour.

In blue and yellow from its grave Springs up the crocus fair,

And God shall raise those bright blue eyes, those sunny waves of hair.

Peace,

Chris