A Season of Small Surrenders
What Lent means to someone who feels like merely dust and breath all year.
The grief of chronic illness is not a sharp, momentary sting of loss… it’s the slow, heavy weight of realizing that this is your life now. That the 23 pills you take each day and the endless appointments that seem to lead nowhere… they are not just a passing necessity. They are part of your survival. And even though you know they’re helping you, they also remind you just how fragile you are.
The subtle reminder that we are dust and breath.
Taking medication every day is an act of surrender. It’s an acknowledgement that you need help to keep going.
Relying on Christ is the same kind of surrender.
You can’t heal yourself, and you were never meant to. But the grace of God meets you in the weakness. He doesn’t promise to take away pain entirely, but He promises to sit with you in it.
To steady your heart even when your body shakes. To remind you that weakness is not failure… It’s where His power rests most fully.
I watched a little girl fight exhaustion all day. By the time evening rolled around, she had nothing left to give—except frustration. Her words grew sharp, her tone defiant, and her patience nonexistent. She lashed out, particularly at an important adult and friend in her life, showing disrespect in a way that made everyone pause.
Her mother didn’t let it slide. She gently but firmly told her to apologize. And when the little girl finally did—when she whispered, “I’m sorry”—the floodgates opened. She crumpled into tears, collapsing into the arms of the very person she had hurt. And the most beautiful thing happened: our friend didn’t scold her, didn’t say, “See? I told you to be nice.” She just held her, whispering words of comfort, stroking her hair, reminding her she was loved.
It struck me how much this mirrors our relationship with God. We make mistakes… sometimes out of exhaustion, sometimes out of stubbornness, sometimes simply because we’re human. We hurt others, we hurt ourselves, and then we drag our feet to God, knowing we need to apologize. But when we do, when the weight of our actions finally settles, we often find ourselves breaking down.
And yet, God doesn’t respond with “I told you so.” He doesn’t list all the ways we could have avoided the pain. He just holds us. He reminds us that we are still His, still beloved, still worthy of love.
No matter how many times we stumble, no matter how many times we have to come back and say, “I messed up again,” His response is always the same…
arms open, love unshaken.
These are two images that encapsulate what I experience most when Lent rolls around each year. Lent does not celebrate righteousness. It is not a celebration at all, truly.
It is a season of small surrenders, reminding us of our weakness… and of His faithfulness in our weakness. Reminding us that He is our sustainer.
And I suppose this section of the liturgical calendar has become near and dear to me since becoming well-acquainted with grief—we are cherished companions now. Curling up with Christ and my weakness has become the most regular part of my life, and Lent often feels like the few weeks when the rest of the Church is in sync with the way I walk with the Lord all year.
So I invite you to join me here: let us reflect on our weakness, grief, pain, illness, disability… whatever it may be, let us intentionally bring it before the Lord and allow it to bring us in closer intimacy with Him. Taking the first step into His presence with so much to carry can be frightening. I am no stranger to that feeling, I assure you.
But He remains near to the brokenhearted (Psalms 34:18) even when—and especially when—we are weakest, most fragile, and most human.
Lent, with its call to surrender and reflect, invites us to lean into this truth: our weaknesses, our pain, our grief are not obstacles to God's love… but the places where His grace is revealed in its fullness.
Just as the little girl found comfort in the arms of the one she hurt—Just as I find relying on medication to be sweet symbolism of His faithfulness and presence in pain… You can find refuge in the embrace of a God whose love remains unwavering, even in our brokenness. As we walk through this season of small surrenders, we are never abandoned.
We are held and beloved by the Sustainer.
Written by Emma Beddingfield, founder of The Gentle Jesus.
Journal Questions
1.) What is one way God has sustained me, even in my pain?
2.) What emotions do I feel strongly right now? Where do I feel them in my body?
3.) What do I wish others understood about my grief?
4.) What is the hardest part about trusting God in this season of grief?
5.) How has God carried me through past hardships? How might that remind me of His faithfulness now?
6.) What does it mean for God to be “near to the brokenhearted” (Psalms 34:18) in my life right now?
7.) In what ways do I feel God’s presence right now?
