At my sister’s house, we are staying in the girls’ room, Eliot on the twin bed and Isaiah and me on the bigger one.
And a few times, either after they go to bed or before they wake, I sneak into the closet for some quiet.
It’s got what you’d expect to find– all these little hidden treasures, their favorite books, pictures they’ve drawn and painted.
There’s a dress-up bin
and beaded necklaces
and a rolling backpack covered in pink and purple hearts and stars.
But for these few days, it’s my quiet space, my solitude, my gentle escape.
The berber carpet becomes a holy ground, a soft place for me to land in quiet and mystery and truth–
We’re all longing for that, aren’t we?
For a space to be quiet,
a space to ask questions and
admit how we feel and
rest in mystery?
And I suppose we’re too afraid, too busy, a little bit of both.
But once we get there, the room to breathe is overwhelming and beautiful.
Once we get there, the openness of those moments takes us by surprise, and its lessons leave us wanting more.
And Lent gives us that space where we grieve and ask what’s going on and admit that we’re hungry, to ask if a Savior really wants us as we are.
And Lent tells us the truth, and we walk in it.
Hallelujah for the space and the closet-quiet,
Hallelujah for the question-asking-mystery.