To March Forth

What it means to keep going

Welcome to the only day of the year that’s a complete sentence. 

March Fo(u)rth is a grammar lover’s delight. A verb that stands alone. A command to keep going.

A lesson in the power of persistence.  

//

As a lover of Sabbath (and someone who always piles too much on her proverbial plate), I find myself increasingly drawn to slowing down and stopping as counter-cultural Christian choices, trying to unlearn the associations I’ve built between busyness and self-worth.

Which means I wrestled with resistance as I mused about March 4th. “Stay strong!” and “don’t give up!” rank high on the list of Annoying Advice People Gave Me In Grief. So I wondered if the notion of persistence is the right word for now. Doesn’t it run counter to Lent’s invitation to live differently, or today’s climate of cultural deconstruction that keeps demanding we stop and cross-examine everything we’ve assumed? Aren’t we supposed to do the opposite and not keep going purely from force of habit or status quo?

But I realized I’ve been underestimating the power of marching forth.

Through grief, through Lent, through the impossibility of now, we still endure—and more than mere lasting, we keep moving. Every year I grow more in awe at human resilience, how persistence is an inextricable part of our survival.

Looking back, can’t we all see long stretches when the only way we made it through was by marching forth each day? I whispered it to myself a thousand times after our twins died: I don’t know how we go on; I only know that we go on.

Today’s declaration of a date presses like pounding feet on pavement, steady to the beat of a bidding drum. March forth, march forth, march forth. The command is a rallying cry, like a father rounding up kids for a road trip. Get. In. The. Car!

Marching forth is the way we keep going, one foot in front of the other, even when we wobble. E.L. Doctorow’s advice on writing applies to way-making through any hard endeavor: “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

Robert Frost’s oft-quoted lines from the poem “A Servant to Servants” echo here, too (especially if we indulge in the delightful swap of Lent for Len in the character’s name): 

Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through— 

//

I love the etymology of Lent: from Old English lencten “springtime, spring,” the season, also “the fast of Lent,” from West Germanic langitinaz “long-days,” or “lengthening of the day.”

Not only because the word’s sprawling roots speak to my sun-searching heart, the seasonally affected part that closes my eyes before any bright window to soak up light on every inch of winter-starved skin, even my eyelids. 

But also because Lent means lengthening and stretching. Reaching into the almost-edge near discomfort that slowly strengthens to growth over time. I would prefer the quick fix, the dopamine hit, the chocolate high, the social media sugar. But Lent tugs a little more each day, a persistent prodding coach. Lean in. Stretch more. Lengthen what you did yesterday.

We tend to think of repentance and repair as one-time decisions, but in practice they are a process—and every process takes persistence.

Fine, I fluster when Lent irritates me again, getting under my skin with the truth of my own sloth or selfishness or sin. Deep down I know this season always brings the stretching I need. You need. We need.

Lent brings us more light. Spring stretches every day. We still have a long way to go through winter, but each evening fills with a few more minutes of sunshine, and the sunset sweeps across the western horizon like a promise: the edge is where beauty is found.

//

The word count slowly builds on the next book. The kids need new shoes. The house groans under the weight of a hundred undone projects. Lengthening is not a dazzling arrival, like a baby’s birth or an artist’s debut. Instead the stretching comes from the steady labor of slow growth.

When I look to the lives of those who inspire me, I see that what many outsiders consider to be their rare accomplishment—a published book, a long marriage, a marathon race, or a sobriety recovery—are often the result of plain hard work. To sit in the chair and write. To stay in the relationship and keep working. To get up early and train while others are sleeping. To show up to therapy and meds and groups when you would rather throw in the towel.

Let’s be clear; grace is shot through, too. The mystery of God’s working and weaving in human lives cannot be underestimated. It can be equally complex to unpack why hard work is not the only answer: that plenty of dreams die despite every best effort.

But I have noticed, from near and far, the ordinary work that makes the impossible possible, like the trickle of water on rock that carves new shapes in stone. We cannot overlook the understated power of regular rhythms of holy labor.

To march forth in deliberate, even dogged, ways when you would rather quit.

//

When you walk for a long time on pilgrimage, something surprising happens.

You arrive.

I am not being facetious. I am talking about blistered heels and bleeding ankles and utter annoyance with every human around you. I am talking about the deep regret that sinks into your bones after hours of cold rain and muddy fields, wondering why on God’s green earth you thought walking miles and miles for days and days was a wise idea.

Every year in Lent I remember what it felt like to arrive at the cathedral steps in Chartres, to sink my tired back against the cold stone wall and slump to the ground with relief. The joy of arriving is unparalleled. Lent’s lengthening stretch leads to Easter joy. This is no season for self-flagellation or self-loathing, but a slow, sacred preparation through penance for what (and Whom) comes next.

To march forth is to arrive somewhere new. Today reminds us it will be the same again this time.