Amy Welborn is a contributor - five devotions per issue - to the Living Faith daily devotional .
A couple of years ago, I lost all my rosemary bushes and a few azaleas in a freeze.
The problem was not the temperature itself, but the fact that it dropped so far so quickly: from the fifties to the teens over just a few hours. The plants couldn’t live through the rapid, dramatic change.
There is no lack of serious spiritual films, but lighter fare can offer insights too. Take the 1966 comedy “The Trouble with Angels.”
Jesus said and did many surprising, even revolutionary things, but this might be one of the most world-shaking. His call for us to be like children can, of course, prompt a great deal of fruitful meditation.
Is it a call to be open, trusting, curious?
To understand our dependence on the Father, to approach him aware of our need and with faith in his care for us?
It’s this: On the increasingly fewer occasions I drive an older car, I must consciously remind myself to actually look and heed—and have almost gotten into accidents a time or two when I’ve forgotten. Being carried along and protected by technology, I’ve become lazy and inattentive.
On a Sunday morning, my son developed a medical issue. It wasn’t terribly serious, but it did need attention—so off we went to the ER. We were the only patients when we arrived and, over the morning and early afternoon, were shuffled to various rooms in the bowels of the hospital. It was easy to believe that we were alone there in this situation of illness and discomfort.
Until we emerged to find rooms and even hallways crowded with young and old, some barely conscious, others clearly in pain
Jesus knew this. When he took his disciples on the mountain, he knew what was coming. Jesus’ gift of the Transfiguration to his disciples was about more than showing them the fullness of his identity. Strange, terrible and confounding events were about to unfold. Would this moment give them something to hold on to when all seemed lost?
Jesus has given us glimpses of light as well. Grateful, even in suffering, we remember.
So with the psalmist, I pray that I’m seeking the Lord with all my heart, and that prompts me to pause and ask myself—is that true? All my heart? Or am I actually seeking the Lord in the way I seem to do so much these days in this noisy, busy world: casually, sporadically, always half-thinking of what comes next?
They’re instructions from the Lord himself on the attitudes to bring to prayer: Put praise of God first. Then pray in acceptance of his will. Ask for what you need today. Acknowledge sin, and ask forgiveness. Forgive others as God has forgiven you. You’ll share this gift of forgiveness as you seek, above all, to be part of God’s will for his Kingdom. Get that? Put praise and gratitude first. Not me and my complaints. Imagine that.
The spiritual life is more complex than that scene at the pool. But there’s one important similarity: Our growth—our real, sometimes even radical, growth—only comes out of a place that’s not of enslavement or fear but in the freedom that Christ gives.
People hunger and thirst in different ways. Some of these hungers are overwhelming, and none can be fully satisfied except in the Lord. Yet, we are called in the present moment to do what we can—and every little bit helps—to feed the sheep.
It also gives me a way to envision this coming week, this Holy Week. It’s not just me walking with Jesus on this path—it’s all of us: hurt, seeking, wounded survivors. We are moving through the week together, accompanying Jesus who will heal our blindness, free us and bring us into life where we do more than survive: We live.
For, as the people of Israel learned again and again, the Lord is always waiting. As Hosea tells us, God welcomes us into his loving embrace, no matter who we are, what we’ve done, no matter what time of day it is or what stage of life we’re in.
It’s never too late.
On Ash Wednesday morning last year, I was in Putignano, Italy, looking for Mass. I found an open church with people sitting inside. I joined them. A man started lighting the altar candles. Mass must begin soon, I thought. But then what? Why is he lighting the paschal candle?
