This is what I whisper to my frantic spirit as I edge my feet out from under the down in the cold, cold morning air.


What felt brisk and refreshing when I had snuggled in to slumber now feels icy and invigorating… but not altogether pleasant on my sleep-warmed flesh.


I touch a toe to the cold maple floors and wrap a cardigan around my shoulders.


I tiptoe quietly into the kitchen, crack eggs in a bowl, and murmur it again.




I pull butter from the fridge to slide into the pan, though bacon grease is tastier, because it is a time to be mindful and a time to make sacrifices, tiny though they may be.


My eyes flit to the clock, automatically calculating how long we have for this, that, and the other thing and I purposely close them, letting lashes drop over blue-green eyes smudged with two-day old mascara.




I pad down the hall and crack open doors, peering in at sleepy-eyed children. I let the light cast gentle beams across the floor and force myself to ignore the little dust particles dancing in an early sunbeam. I hum a song as I head back to the kitchen, knowing they’ll rise soon enough.


And so begins our Lent.




On a whisper, not a bang.


I’m good at the bang, the boom, the grandiose.


I’m not so good at the whisper, the gentle, the quiet-ever-open spirit.




my heart shivers… then sighs.



Linked up to #EEGentleLent, Elizabeth Esther’s linkup for those celebrating a gentle Lent…

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