Lent is an inward journey. One where we are invited to discover our coordinates on the map and to name the place that we are making a home and trying to build a life. 

When we really start trying to identify where the waves and breakers have landed us, the coordinates we’re calling home can be surprising. Lent forces to see where we are before our world falls apart and we exclaim, “how did I get here?” If the only introspection we do is after the crash, we’re bound to continue to find our lives dashed against the rocky shore with hands in the air shocked to be where we were only a short time ago. 

Maybe there’s a better way. Maybe there’s a lighthouse that can declare “there’s trouble ahead.” But that demands quiet. It requires diagnostic. It rests on the shoulders of a gaze that searches deep down into the darkness of our heart. It rejects pulling back because of fear of what we might find, and journeys into the abyss; into that which may only be known to God. 

During Lent, the church declares that we are traveling companions on this journey. Like the people of God sojourning toward Jerusalem, we link arms to explore what’s driving us, what’s named us, and what has its claws in us. 

The Lenten journey is one that can be wrought with seeing our own brokenness - and therefore it can be quite painful. To come face-to-face with our bitterness. Our unmet longings and latent doubts. But it’s that darkness that must be named so that it can be pulled into the Light. Lent is a time for all of the sleepers to raise their heads and let Christ shine on them, on us, on me. 

What are your coordinates? Are you broken and bitter? Are you alive and well? Are you lost or found? Are you defensive or free? Where are you making your home right now? Where are the rhythms of your soul leading you?

The season of Lent reminds us light is coming, that resurrection only follows death, and that life is our destiny. But it also reminds us that it’s a pilgrimage to get there.  One that we must allow Jesus to determine the pace of. I’m not sure if you’re out front or way behind, but I’m confident the voice of Jesus is still gently calling you to follow.

I think Jesus’ invitation to me is to begin to listen afresh for his cadence. To see the ways the ebb and flow of the voyage has wounded me, but to move through death and back toward light. One. Day. At. A. Time.