Broken and bruised
Finding Home in Anglicanism (Part 8)
The longer I’ve been alive (I’m turning forty in April!), the more I’ve seen evidence of the truth of the Scripture in Isaiah, “‘For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways,’ says the Lord. ‘For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts.’” Though I felt strongly (and still do) that my word for 2026 is “restoration”, not much of the year so far seems like it supports that. If anything, it honestly feels like the opposite, and I feel like these first weeks of the new year dragged me over a rocky road and left me bruised and broken.
So this past week I found myself somewhat desperate for Lent to begin. On Ash Wednesday, I shared with Aaron that I was feeling a lot of relief entering a liturgical season where communally it’s okay to be sitting in grief and brokenness. Life is just really hard a lot of the time, and I so appreciate that the church calendar regularly makes space to acknowledge that and not just immediately move on.
I’ve written a good amount in the past about using story to help our children (and ourselves!) learn how to process and sit with hard emotions and circumstances. From Éowyn in The Lord of the Rings trilogy, to the lovely Irish film “Song of the Sea”, there are so many stories that show us that the cultural perception that we should just “get over” our pain and discouragement and grief isn’t the answer. Stoicism actually isn’t healthy when you look at the long-term big picture.
I feel like the inability to be okay with “negative” emotions increases ten-fold in a lot of evangelical Christian circles. Always being happy for Jesus isn’t actually something that we see in Scripture. So the fact that the liturgical calendar has a recurring space (in Lent, and in Advent, to a somewhat lesser degree) for you to sit with your brokenness and grief speaks multitudes. Jesus wept, and felt grief (and anger!), and didn’t just immediately get over it. As people who want to follow and emulate Him, we need to be okay with those uncomfortable feelings as well.
And Ash Wednesday isn’t comfortable. Last year it was just me as we didn’t start going to our beloved Anglican church as a family until the fourth week of Lent, but this year, we attended the evening Ash Wednesday service as a family, which added a whole other layer. Seeing your children ashed and told to remember that they are dust and to dust they shall return, causes a mama’s heart to dwell upon Whose her children actually are. All the way from the 6’4” teenager whom the priest called a man, down to the tiny two-year-old sprite who was definitely struggling with a solemn music-free service right before bedtime. Being reminded of your children’s mortality is heart-wrenching, but needed.
Now we enter Lent, and my soul breathes a sigh of relief. Easter is coming, but there is time to sit with our grief, acknowledging the brokenness of this world and our place in it. For me, a huge way I process and work through things is via books, and Lent is no different. This year, I’m reading Between Midnight and Dawn: A Literary Guide to Prayer for Lent, Holy Week, and Eastertide by Sarah Arthur and Word in the Wilderness: A Poem a Day for Lent and Easter by Malcolm Guite, and so far I’ve really appreciated how they’re approaching the Lenten season. Last year, The Heart’s Time: A Poem a Day for Lent and Easter by Janet Morley was a beautiful accompaniment, and Bread and Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter put out by Plough had a wonderful perspective.
For myself, I’m hoping and praying that Lent will be a time of healing and restoration, and may it be for you as well. Courage, dear heart...our Savior knows pain and is always with us. Thanks be to God.
“So rend your heart, and not your garments; Return to the LORD your God, For He is gracious and merciful, Slow to anger, and of great kindness; And He relents from doing harm.” (Joel 2:13)
“Finding Home in Anglicanism” series
Part Four: “O God, make speed to save us”
Seeing my children ashed always strikes deep for me as well. There's nothing really like that symbolic encounter with mortality in general but especially juxtaposed against the little ones' innocence and vitality.
I am also grateful for the yearly, normalized space to process grief. It's interesting that the timing happens to line up with the time of year when people most often get sick, and die, and suffer depression.
I feel sad to hear that you also are still wading through loss and sorrow and that the promise that he will restore the years the locust has eaten is still something to grasp at desperately by faith. But you are not alone. I am grateful that you are able to articulate some of the emotional weight that you (and we) carry. I have a very difficult time verbalizing and sharing but it is a blessing to grieve communally and that requires at least one person speaking what we feel.