Although I am weary from my Lenten penances, my senses are sharper. When my daughter touches my arm in the early morning so she can crawl under the covers next to me, I notice and make way, helping her settle into the crook of my arm. When my hubby rolls closer to me in the stirrings before the morning alarm, I move my chilly feet closer to his feet, and he offers wordless warmth. When my 9-month old sits up in her crib next to my bed and begins to play with quiet joy, I'm grateful that no one will need to shush anyone this morning, and I slide out of bed, pick her up, and hold her close as we walk out to begin the rest of the day.
This Lenten emptiness has transformed into the spaciousness I crave so often. By letting go, I have embraced something unexpected: ample, uncluttered room in which to attend to the graces of my daily life. What further graces will I encounter this Lent from the effects of my Lenten penances?
This Lenten emptiness has transformed into the spaciousness I crave so often. By letting go, I have embraced something unexpected: ample, uncluttered room in which to attend to the graces of my daily life. What further graces will I encounter this Lent from the effects of my Lenten penances?
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