We have fog and thick hoarfroast this morning; the trees in the cemetery look like ghosts. It's cold, too, and the paper has been hinting at snow for a few days.
Last week we had the most significant snowfall we've had since Christmas--so much so that I worried about getting stuck on one of the few hills we have in town. The Subaru made it through, however, and I got safely to my destination.
Outside, it looks like winter. Deeper winter, in fact, than we had two weeks ago, when the weather flirted with the forty-degree range for a while. But something has changed. We're by no means done with snow and cold, but we're making the turn to spring.
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This week some friends and friends-of-friends are dealing with tragedy, uncertainty, and fear. I have spent more time praying for relative strangers in the past few days than I have in a while. The circumstances aren't mine; for the most part, I am untouched by them. But their sadness is in part my own. This is how the body of Christ works, even when we don't recognize it.
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Later this week, Pope Benedict will step down in order to devote himself more fully to prayer and meditation. What could that look like in my life?
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The doldrums of February and the early weeks of Lent feel heavy. Sure, Lent is named for springtime, but it's not here yet. Certainly, Lent prepares us for the joys and burdens of Holy Week, but we have a ways to go.
I know what it is that turns me toward spring. The light is different. The change in light always catches my attention as seasons shift--well before the temperatures catch up. We'll have the frost for a while, but the light is becoming the light of spring.
In the cold and fog, I'm not seeing clearly. But it's coming.
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