The space between

The big yellow bus that transports my tall daughter to and from school each day stops a quarter-mile from our house. The bus arrives, softly screeching, at the bottom of our steeply sloping driveway, which carves a path through the clearing by the road, up through the woods, and between two rows of dogwood trees. Like my daughter, I too had to journey down the mountain to catch the school bus when I was young. I remember winters when my sisters and I would use our backpacks as sleds to slide down the steepest part of the driveway. I remember taking short-cuts through the woods, stopping by our favorite tree fort on the way home. And I remember how long that walk used to feel, especially on hot days with heavy bags full of homework.

Now, with the longer legs and perspective of adulthood, the walk doesn’t seem nearly so long. I find that I look forward to my daily treks through the space between the house and the road. Some days I walk alone, breathing deeply in the sweet silence, and some days I enjoy the company of just one child at a time. My small son and I run recklessly, his short, strong legs quickly outpacing mine. We play freeze-tag while we wait for the bus, or unzip our jackets and pretend to be flying squirrels, his bubbling laughter infectious and bright. My small daughter and I meander slowly through the woods, spotting red cardinals or brown rabbits with cotton-ball tails. My tall daughter and I stop by the pipe bursting with spring water, and she crosses a wooden beam over the ditch to get a drink. We hold hands as we walk home, and I tell her I love her and ask if she’s okay. She rolls her eyes and smiles at the ground. “I know you love me, and I’m okay,” she assures me.

This space between departure and arrival is itself an assurance, a gift of attentiveness in a busy day. I am aware of the light slanting across the trees, the shape of the clouds, the smell of the air. I watch the receding snow-banks and feel the squish and slip of the water-soaked earth beneath my feet. I notice the delicate purple crocus, the brave daffodils pushing yellow faces toward the sky, the bright green color of the ivy. And I give thanks.

Just like that, winter has come and gone. The last of the stored apples sit at the bottom of the bushel basket, soft and bruised, and what felt like a vast store of frozen applesauce has dwindled to only a few quarts. The days are longer now, the lighter evenings full of promise for escape to the outdoors after dinner. The tops of the bare trees are beginning to blush, to redden with swelling buds. The children have pulled out their shorts and t-shirts, and I am amazed at the length of their limbs—my small daughter’s dresses look more like shirts when she wears them now, and my tall daughter’s long legs have the sinewy appearance of youth.

The children and I crack the hard black walnuts that we collected last fall, the nuts my small son and good husband hulled and set out to dry in the attic all winter. I find it a strangely satisfying task. There is a sweet release in the sound of a cracking nut, in the sight of the shell splintering open to reveal bits of flesh inside. And I think suddenly of the cracking tomb, of the delight of God the Father, Son and Spirit as together they split the dark shell of death to reveal new life inside.

I remember that Lent is also a space between departure and arrival, a gift of attentiveness in a busy season. It is a forty-day walk through the wilderness, a call to breathe deep, to reflect, to repent, to remember. It is the space between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday, between winter and spring, between darkness and light, between despair and hope. Like all spaces between, it can be a place of beauty—not merely ground to put behind me, but ground to stand upon and call holy.

I am grateful for a season that begins by proclaiming, “From dust you came and to dust you shall return,” and ends by proclaiming that Christ’s death has conquered death. I need to hear and to hold both truths dear—both the reality of my weakness and the reality of the power of the Spirit of Jesus, the power that raised him from the dead, at work in me. So I wander through the space between, giving thanks for a God who remembers I am dust and who loves me more than I can imagine. Like my tall daughter, I listen for that voice and whisper my assurance into the damp air:  “I know you love me, and I’m okay.”