The spirit is willing --

It's Lent again: everyone is clad in purple and the time has come to once again prepare the way. Last year, I wrote, or, rather, tried to write about Lent and our loss. But I wasn't able.

This year, I stumbled upon an article in The Lutheran called "Keeping a Good Lent". Michael Cooper-White writes about Anglican theologian H. A. Williams's sermon "The True Wilderness" and summarizes the priest's conclusion that rather than the "ecclesiastical charade" of giving up sugar or lovely things, we ought seek the true Lent - and that we ought "follow Jesus into a wilderness place, going somewhere one has never gone before. In so doing, like Jesus, we may find renewal and inspiration, being filled by God's Spirit".

Last year's Lent took Tim and I into a wilderness place - the wild hurt of pregnancy loss and this year we stand in a new wilderness place - on the strange precipice of a diagnosis of infertility. It's a strange new world for us, having fallen pregnant on the pill and after only a few cycles of trying with the two children we have now. But as we've learned over the past year, falling pregnant isn't what makes you fertile - having a baby is.

A few weeks ago, in the flurry of "What are you giving up for Lent" conversations, one bitter thought echoed in my head: Last year I gave up a baby. That's enough. To be fair, I didn't give up a baby for Lent, it just so happened that I had a miscarriage during Lent. I'm of the opinion that it wasn't God's fault or divine plan, so I kind of have to let God off the hook for that one. Still, that's what it felt like. It felt as though our Lenten journey coincided with our loss journey. I felt certain that we'd be through both in just a short amount of time. And here we are, two weeks into the next Lent and still on our pregnancy journey.

And I am in a new wilderness place - one that is scary and full of pain and scared people - and yet, still, I have things to learn this year that I wasn't able to bring voice to last year. If I wish to see this as a part of the journey - as I seemed to struggle with last year - then I need to come out on the other side of this time having found renewal and inspiration -- I need to make it a true Lent and allow myself an opportunity for renewed faith and spirit.

I have spent the last year screaming: take this cup. I didn't want to be on this journey. There's too much pain. Too much sadness. If there was a way to give it up, I sure would've liked to. I've offered prayers. Wept. Raged. I do not wish to be here. I do not wish to be here.

And yet I am here. This is where I start each morning - this wilderness place stretched into my heart, stretched between me and God, stretched around my psyche. And it is here that I must walk this year - with the deep hope that renewal and inspiration are on the path and that I might once more lift up prayers with a faith that they will be heard. I wonder how I'll get through and come out on the other side. I don't know what it will take - what actions will soothe the bitterness in my heart, when once again I'll feel like praying, or at what point I'll end my silent treatment with God. In the meantime, I'll show up. And shut up. And wait for that still, small voice.