“Light within all light
Soul behind all souls
at the breaking of the dawn
at the coming of the day
we wait and watch.”
~John Philip Newell

There is always a certain time of winter in Minnesota when our ability to get around is not hindered so much by snow as ice. Though snow, brown and dirty, may still be piled high and patches of ice shine like glass in the brilliant sun, it is the potholes in the road that cause us to drive cautiously, veering left and right, slowing to a creep to drive into and then out of a hole that had not been there even a day before. The combination of salt, sand and chemicals to reduce tires sliding on snowy streets creates these sometimes enormous holes that can jar our teeth and mess with our car’s alignment. This can be at the least annoying and at worst dangerous.

However, there is always one pothole whose appearance I anticipate. It happens year after year in one particular place along a busy street in my neighborhood. The asphalt that has created a smooth drive chips away and reveals a glimpse at another time in our city’s history. The black, tarry substance peals back and reveals not only the cobblestones that lay beneath but also the rails that carried the street car. When this happens, as it did this past week, I am always pleased to be reminded of what my neighborhood might have been like in a slower, perhaps even more elegant time. As streetcars carried people from work and shopping in downtown St. Paul up the Smith Avenue hill, I imagine them getting off at the local pharmacy on the corner. This building which now houses the coffee shop where I often sit drinking a steaming cup of coffee and reading or writing, was once the local place to have a prescription filled or to have a soda while thumbing though a magazine. The pothole that conjures this all up for me rests like a beacon outside the pharmacy-cum-coffee shop.

Each time this pothole makes its yearly appearance, I am reminded of all the layers of our lives. Historically we know that cities are built upon cities, other lives upon other lives. It is the work of archeologists to dig and unravel what lays beneath soil and sand to reveal a piece of pottery or jewelry, a clue to the lives that once lived in a place. We also know that our own lives have the layers of where we were born and lived our early days piled high with the experiences of education and work, relationships and family, disappointments and successes. All these are layered upon one another, over and over until sometimes it is easy to forget what is just below the surface.

As people of faith, we also carry the layers of the stories that shaped not only us but those who have nurtured, protected and defined our traditions. For good or ill we carry these layers within our own story. I am always reminded of this as one church season turns to another.

Those of us in the Christian household began the observance of Lent this past week. On Sunday we read again the story of Jesus’ journey into the wilderness. Here he confronts the temptations of body and spirit, of wrestling with power and control, of turning his back on his Creator. It is Jesus’ story. But it is also ours and if we allow its wisdom to inform our own story we are confronted by our own wilderness journeys. We can peal back the layers of what these wilderness times have brought us and, perhaps, find wisdom for moving through these forty days in new ways, with new understanding of the call on our own lives.

Lent can be a time for reflection. Reflection on the layers of who we are and how the Holy moves in our lives. Reflection on what has shaped us, what is important to keep and what is as equally important to let go. Reflection on our story and how it fits into a larger story. The layers are rich and deep, sometimes holding the gifts of the past. Always pointing toward the hopes of the future.