Week One: The Threshold
A Word for the Way: Guiding Scripture for the Week
“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly."
—Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)
A Practice to Carry: Stepping Through the Threshold
Every journey begins with a crossing. Some thresholds are clear—a doorway, a gate, the place where shadow meets light. Others are less visible—the quiet shift inside, the unspoken yes to something new.
This week, let yourself step through with intention.
Choose a physical threshold in your home or outside—a doorway, a gate, a natural boundary. Pause before stepping through.
Notice: What are you carrying? What are you willing to set down?
Step through slowly, intentionally.
Let there be a breath between here and there. A moment of awareness, of release, of quiet trust.
A Shared Practice: A Thread That Weaves Us Together
Throughout the week, you will find small invitations—practices that extend beyond your own journey, linking you quietly to those walking this path alongside you. These are not obligations but sacred moments of connection, a reminder that even in solitude, we are not alone.
This week, on Thursday at sunset, wherever you are, light a candle. Let its glow be a quiet offering, a prayer without words. Whisper a prayer—something spoken, something sighed, something left unspoken. Know that as the light flickers, others are doing the same. A shared breath. A shared moment. A quiet tether holding us together in the turning of the season.
Monday: Stepping Across the Threshold
Lent does not wait for perfect readiness; it meets us where we are and invites us to step in. This first movement is not about certainty but about noticing—pausing at the threshold between what has been and what is yet to come. We do not need to know the way, only to trust that something sacred is already unfolding.
Tuesday: The Road Before You
The road ahead is uncertain, but trust begins before we see the whole way. Lent is not something to master—it is a way of walking, loosening our grip on certainty and learning to move with faith. Today, we step forward not because we have all the answers, but because something calls us onward, and we do not walk alone.
Ash Wednesday: Marked by Dust
We are dust, and we are beloved—held in a story far older than ourselves. This day is not about fear or sorrow, but about remembering—who we are, what we are made of, and what remains even when all else fades. The dust does not fear the wind, and neither should we, for we belong to something vast, something holy, something eternal.
Thursday: Holding Both Hope and Grief
Lent holds the tension of both hope and grief, refusing to let us choose one over the other. We are stretched wide, learning to carry joy and sorrow together, just as Jesus did. To be human is to hold both—to let our souls expand, making room for all that is real.
Friday: The Crossroads
A crossroads is rarely a grand moment—it is the quiet ache of restlessness, the pause before the next step. The instinct is to move, to reach for certainty, but what if stillness has its own work to do? Some paths only become clear once we begin walking, and in the waiting, we are still being led.
Saturday: Tending What is Stirring
Something within you has shifted—perhaps only slightly, perhaps in a way that unsettles everything. This is not a day for fixing or forcing clarity, but for tending, for listening to what stirs beneath the surface. Some movements of the soul rise in silence, not in words, and the way forward often begins with the quiet act of noticing.
Sunday: Steps Forward
First Sunday of Lent – Invocabit (He shall call upon me)
The first Sunday of Lent holds a name like a whispered prayer: Invocabit—"He shall call upon me."
This is the day of calling and response, of speaking into the quiet and listening for what echoes back. It is the reminder that to call upon God is not a test of faith but an act of being human—of reaching, of aching, of knowing, even in the silence, that we are not alone.
Today, let this be enough:
To call.
To listen.
To trust that even the smallest voice is heard.