The Wormwood and the Gall

lenten musings on the wanderer's portion

“Bonn am Rhein,” Helmer Osslund (n.d.)

For if what was being brought to an end came with glory, much more will what is permanent have glory.

- 2 Corinthians 3:11

Lent is the season of yearning days.

It whispers the soul towards resting without restlessness, longing without hopelessness, awaiting life while sitting at the tomb of death.

It is the very essence of a childlike heart, finding beauty in the stars; knowing they are a dim reminder of light until the sun rises at the break of dawn, as it surely will. It is satisfaction with the glimmer in the darkness, but a dissatisfaction until the fullness of its brilliance is revealed.

It is both contentment and discontentment: peace in the moment, yet impatience for His return; grace in the trial, yet crying out for His restoration; joy in the interruptions, yet desperation for the incorruptible, unchangeable, consistent glory of His eternal days.

It is the poet crying out,

"Remember my affliction and my wanderings, 
     the wormwood and the gall! 
My soul continually remembers it 
     and is bowed down within me. 
But this I call to mind, 
     and therefore I have hope:  

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; 
     His mercies never come to an end; 
they are new every morning; 
     great is Your faithfulness. 
“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,    
    “therefore I will hope in Him.'"

- Lamentations 3:19-24

It is the gathering of the wanderers’ prayers longing for the light of the Lord’s face to shine upon them, washing away the wormwood and the gall.

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We are indeed sojourners in this lowly world.

We do not long lay our heads, our feet do not rest on handcrafted stools by a cozy fire, our hearts do not settle to collect dusts in the hollows. The whole earth itself is a museum of statued souls, minds that have been satisfied with far too shallow things. But the heart after its Maker knows the image it bears craves far brighter days.

So we wander.

And while we wander we wonder.

We wonder at the sands of time, the shifting winds, the silhouettes of seasons as they birth new beauties and gently lay to rest the sleeping moments. We find grace in the lowlands, while we long for the glory of the highlands.

I hear the echo of lent in Paul’s writings to the Corinthian church,

Now if the ministry of death, carved in letters on stone, came with such glory that the Israelites could not gaze at Moses’ face because of its glory, which was being brought to an end, will not the ministry of the Spirit have even more glory?

- 2 Corinthians 3:7-8

This is the wanderer’s song. It is the wormwood and the gall of the Old Testament law being brought to grace and redemption in the gospel. The bitter stain of blood beneath the wooden cross being brought to light and hope at the morning call of the bluebird. The pilgrim days being brought to homeland years when at last the King returns.

Yet, how the hearts of men do glower upon glorious things - upon the wormwood and the gall - for we cannot see past the veil covering our eyes to its grace.

And how the Spirit of God does reach into our souls to stir our sight and grant us faith to behold the mystery of springtime after winter, light after darkness, warmth after cold.

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It’s etched all throughout Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities; these are “the best of times [and] the worst of times.”

The wandering life is the worst of lives. It is one of loss and roaming and an understanding that breeds perspective but not often companionship.

Yet, the wandering life is the best of lives. The wormwood and the gall are woven in threads of eternal song, painted into our souls with strands of golden light. The wounds they leave are deep and bloody, but the scars which bind them are pictures of grace, stories on our skin, flowers upon the graveyards of our soul.

And it is only the beginning of life. One day the sun will rise eternally. One day our portion will be no longer a glimpse beyond a veil, but a brilliance face-to-face.

Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven.

- 1 Corinthians 15:49

And so, as a wanderer I wait, as every faithful wanderer does, “in eager expectation and hope that I will not be at all ashamed, but that will full courage, now as always, Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death” (Phil 1:20).

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The dry and desolate dusts of the wilderness are beautiful simply because they teach the soul to wait for the rain - which is the true beauty.

The lowlands are beautiful because they whisper echoes of yearning into the souls of highland-bound hearts.

This is the ache for lent in the wanderer. It is the sojourner’s fasting and consecrating, enduring “for the joy set before him” (Hebrews 12:2).

Wormwood and gall in exchange for an eternal portion of hope.

I heard the remnants of the rain; 
They flooded every empty place. 

- a short poem I wrote at midnight when I awoke to rain pouring from the night-sky after months of drought and dusts