I don’t know about you but these last few days, the world has seemed very… heavy.
The Holy Father has resigned, Lent has begun, and I’ve got a cold.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Things have felt weighty and serious; but in a good way. I’m usually all about the excitement and the colour, but these days are the lean, grey days.
These are the days to sit quietly, and watch, and pray.
These are the days to feel o feel the smooth, wooden beads of prayer and hear the whispers of the Spirit. To be unmoved by the pounding headache within or the roar of the world without.
These are the days to watch my soul as it flickers and dances and jumps about – now in fear, now in peace, now dread and a moment later, hope.
These are the days to be cloaked in grey.
It’s supposed to be a cross, clear and stark, but in these grey days, a smudge suffices.
For grey is a fuzzy colour. Like static.
And the Cross will become sharper. But it is still far away, at the other end of this long Lent.
Then, these Greys of Lent will give way to the the Greens of the palms and hosannas and then of a Garden and agony, to the Purples of royal dignity and the Kings of this World.
We will have the vivid Reds of His Precious Blood and of whips, insults, nails, and torn flesh.
Then will come the Blacks of a stark Cross and an unholy eclipse.
Until, He is Risen and we will have the Yellows of a Resurrection in the East, the Son of God and Sun of the New Creation, and will we rejoice in the purest of colours, the Whites.
And we shall dance, and sing, and shout Alleluia!
But that is still to come. It is still weeks away. So I will be still.
For these are the grey days.
Remember man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.