On the Threshold of Great Lent
A Letter from the Wilderness
Liturgical Season: Great Lent
Scripture for Reflection: “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” – Psalm 147:3
The Battle Within
Dear Fellow Pilgrim,
As the Lenten season draws near, I find myself standing at the crossroads of pain and renewal, gazing at the horizon where darkness surrenders to dawn. My path has been long, my burdens heavy—but today, I sense the whisper of hope stirring within me.
After years of wandering through the fog of unspoken wounds, I now have a name for them—Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. These words, though weighty, are not shackles. They are torches, illuminating the landscape of my past and guiding me toward healing.
For 38 years, the echoes of my childhood have trailed behind me like shadows at dusk. Where others stride confidently into adulthood, I have often felt like a lost child in a world too vast, too uncertain. And now, as a mother, the weight of my own unhealed wounds presses heavier still. How does one nurture life while still learning to tend to their own?
But… God.
In His mercy, He has never abandoned me—not in my sorrow, not in my confusion, not even in the depths where my illness whispered lies of isolation. He has been the unseen hand, guiding me to this place, revealing Himself in quiet moments, in unlikely places. I marvel at how He does that—for each of us.
So I stand here, trembling but grateful, at the threshold of healing. This blog will be my testament—a monument to endurance, to grace, to the simple, breathtaking truth that I have survived. That I am healing. That I will, by His mercy, learn to live fully.
More than a record, this space will be part of my healing. Words are both offering and balm. With each post, I pray to steady the flame within me, to let my smoldering wick burn just a little brighter.
Steadying the Flame
Today, I remind myself of mindfulness—a practice I did not embrace today, but will reach for tomorrow.
Mindfulness calls me to be present—to feel each moment without judgment, to let pain rise and fall like waves without drowning in them. It is an act of trust, a quiet defiance against the storms of the past and the anxieties of the future.
And so, tomorrow, I will try again. There was a time when I did not believe in tomorrow. When each sunrise felt more like a burden than a promise. But today… tonight… I do. And that, too, is a mercy.
Small Mercies
Today, the book What My Bones Know by Stephanie Foo opened a door within me. Her words echoed my own unspoken struggles, as though God Himself was whispering through the pages: You are not alone.
C.S. Lewis once wrote, “God knows the wretched machine you are trying to drive.” And oh, how wretched it has felt at times. But this truth brings me comfort: even in my brokenness, I am not abandoned. Even in my struggle, there is beauty to be found. Even in suffering, there is something worth redeeming.
I long to step into that goodness—to see, to taste, to embrace the kind and the beautiful. To heal.
And if you, dear reader, feel as I do—if your light feels dim, if your soul flickers weakly against the wind—I invite you to stand beside me. To name the darkness, but not be consumed by it. To remember that a smoldering wick He will not quench (Isaiah 42:3).
The Liturgical Rhythm of Healing
Great Lent approaches, a season of repentance, of stripping away, of quieting the noise so that something deeper, truer, can be heard. I am reminded that my light will shine. That I will not be defeated, just as Christ was not defeated. I am resurrected in Him. Yes, I have been given a rough beginning to eternity, but—oh, how much sweeter the end will be. So I press forward, one step at a time, carrying my little flickering flame, trusting that even the smallest light is precious in His sight.
Press forward with me…
Closing Prayer
O Lord, You who heal the brokenhearted, strengthen me as I step into this season of healing. Steady my trembling hands, calm my restless heart. In the darkness, let me see Your light. In the silence, let me hear Your voice. Thank You for the small mercies that guide me home. May I trust, always, in Your unfailing love. Amen.
+ As we approach Lent, where do you find light in your moments of darkness? What practices help you remain present in the midst of life’s storms? I would love to hear your thoughts as we walk this path together. +
