Limping to New Life
Author: Andrew Comiskey
April 01, 2024
I Will Arise
‘Weary and weak––accept my weariness.
Weary and weak and downcast in soul,
With hope growing less and less,
And with the goal
Distant and dim—accept my sore distress...’
My confession to Father Justin? One ragged soul on the
eve of Easter. Maybe disappointed me more than God. But my raggedness was not
without consequence. If the Church intends Lent to slow us and sensitize our
receptors––breaking up fallow ground for new life––I didn’t get the memo. Or
heed it.
From Ash Wednesday on, I sprinted throughout the
states and India—blogging in waiting rooms, praying and fasting on the run, almsgiving
on steroids. Holy Week ended with a stumble over the finish line. Empty tomb. Check.
‘It is finished’ indeed.
I normally love the rhythm of Lent: travel pause and deepening
reflection on the need to get saved. Again. Chilly mornings with just a hint of
green and the red flash of a robin or cardinal––Missouri at her best.
This year, even the whacked-out weather contributed to
my arrhythmia: January was Arctic then the fairest of Februarys. Fruit trees
flowered then froze, over and over. Counterfeit spring!
Imbalance: ongoing fallout from Mike Bickle’s refusal
to discipline his sons, Pope Francis’ confusing, ill-advised candor, Biden and
Trump invoking Jesus as a cover for their power lust. In the mirror of these larger-than-life
figures, I caught a glimpse of my bloodshot eyes and a wife wearied by her agitated
husband.
I loved Father Justin’s counsel. After exchanging Jesus’
mercy for my sins, he shared: ‘Each Lent is different, and God’s okay with
that. You are broken ground for new life. Let Him be for you what you can’t
be.’
I thought about Jesus who held His tongue and handed
Himself over to bad guys as to flip the whole thing around. He did the heavy
lifting; He did it for me. All He asks is that I welcome His gift of life. In my
weakness. As open as I can be. Unfathomable grace.
Only Jesus can turn a ragged end into a new start. Easter.
‘Only one thing I knew, Thy love of me,
One only thing I know, Thy sacred same
Love of me full and free,
A craving flame
Of selfless love of me which burns in Thee.
How can I think of Thee, and yet grow chill,
Of Thee, and yet grow cold and nigh to death?
Reenergize my will,
Rebuild my faith,
I will arise and run,
Thou giving me breath.’
Christina Rossetti
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