A Faint Scent

The smoke from a wood burning stove crept into my jacket and filled my fleece with its reminder of warmth and light. I never saw the fire, never felt its warmth or saw its light, but its inviting scent was enough for me to know it was somewhere, warming someone, showing someone its light. Now a part of it is still with me, not letting me forget its message of warmth and light, a message so contrary to the season of Lent, a dark, damp season when the music finds minor chords, the banners on the lectern and alter are deep blue or purple. But even in this season, when the church journeys to a the days of deepest darkness, there are always glimpses of light, of resurrection.

A few years ago a friend died during Lent. It felt more like she was taken from us. Too young, too much joy yet to be had, too much pain to endure. When we gathered together to do what must be done when one of us dies -- to mourn, to remember, to pray, to be part of the bridge between life and death and resurrection -- it was still Lent. And the gravity of letting her go felt dark and damp unlike any other Lent I had lived. I knew at the end of the service we would sing the Moravian Easter hymn, a hymn that gives me chills because it demands to be heard. I've sang it, I've accompanied it on flute and bells, and once in snow pellets that pinged off the metal bells. I've played it at a cemetary, I've sang it on a church lawn, in a sanctuary, and on a street with thousands of others. The Bechler Easter hymn rises to a fevered pitch at the end as we sing, "for us, for us, the Lamb was slain!" and makes a dramatic pause before singing diliberately, "Praise ye -- the Lord! -- A-men."

We sang it at Susan's memorial service, right there in the middle of Lent. Its 18th century notes and words helped us say something that seemed as far off as the faint scent of a wood burning stove on a cold night.