First Tuesday in Lent

“Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” 1 Corinthians 1:20

when ash is drifting down on us,
and the bitter wind carries away
all our well-memorized answers,
do we need the smartest person
in the room,
or the one whose pain
is etched on their face?
when our hearts have crumpled,
every argument tossed aside,
with only a deep ache remaining,
do we need a summa cum laude
or the person who has had
a hope transplant done by the Spirit?
when we are made speechless
as we stand at the edge of the Skull,
truth splintering into pick-up sticks,
do we need a by-God spellbinder
or a little child with simple words?
like bread torn apart by unseen hands,
like light pouring into those
cracks we never notice,
gather up our knowing, God,
and unmake it by your grace—
peeling away that brilliance
blinding us to justice,
unraveling those Gordian knots
made of anger and arrogance,
turning our self-righteous piety
into fools gold with no value—
so that in our Lenten wilderness,
we might realize you are not
as dumb as we think you are.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

First Monday in Lent

“The LORD will keep
     your going out and your coming in
     from this time on and for evermore.” Psalm 121:8

whether on the open road
or negotiating a narrow path,
you trace our footsteps,
Compassionate God,
from sunrise to sunset,
cradling our comings and goings
in hands covered in dust and dawn.
we can’t help but wander
chasing after noise, jogging with fear,
hoping to find illusions of power,
while you watch from the edges of life,
that quiet observer when we forget
how you hold us in your arms.
sometimes our doubts are like
pebbles in our shoes as we walk
through this Lenten wilderness,
yet you stay by our side, slowly,
faithfully, as if each step was a prayer
when we dare to leave the familiar
you are waiting in what scares us.
and when we limp back home,
you are sitting by the window with a lamp
to keep us honest when we go out,
have mercy on us when we come in,
guard all those small journeys—
turning toward forgiveness,
walking away from cruelty,
taking the long journey to grace.
from the very first breath you gifted us
to the final one we will give back to you,
be that gentle rhythm under our feet,
that home we never leave.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

First Sunday in Lent

“Happy are those whose strength is in you,
   in whose heart are the highways to Zion.” Psalm 84:5

society rushes by,
distractions bring paths to a standstill,
whispers of hope are drowned
by the noise of every moment,
so blessed are the weary feet
of pilgrims walking through Lent.
for in the companionship of others
we find strength for this journey,
hope echoes in our hearts
with every step we take.
for we are not just marching
to an empty tomb in a garden,
but through that slow realization
of the presence of God’s grace
in every pothole of our lives.
we might miss the quiet joys
of this silent season of wandering
as we focus on frenzied posts,
but in the simple act of pausing
in the spiritual discipline of discovering
the gifts in the unnoticed corners,
but if we walk with faithful caution
in the light of the promise
that in our mortality, even
as we trail Jesus down those
dusty roads leading to death—
we are blessed.
for this is not a sprint to win
some sort of medal,
but that slow, tender pilgrimage
to the heart of God.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

First Saturday in Lent

“I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

soul-weary,
hearts battered by news,
shoes covered with debris of cruelty,
hope so thin we have trouble breathing—
no wonder we whisper,
we are not enough
and we are not . . . by ourselves.
but then, slipping into our fatigue
like light through the closed
slats of window shutters,
comes a quiet resolve—
not loud, nor boastful,
just persistent as grace.
it is Jesus
that troublemaker telling stories
of people standing together,
that friend who does not leave us
crumpled in the rubble of doubts—
but never stops nudging us
to keep crafting justice, just
one small act of fairness at a time
to always choose compassion
no matter how attractive snark becomes,
to wrap others in the bands of grace,
just as we are swaddled in it,
to dare never give up hope
because
resurrection
is planted in the garden of weakness.
perhaps we are not enough
as the cosmic powers tell us—
but we are not alone
and companion by companion,
pilgrim by pilgrim
witness by witness,
we become that doorway
through which the strength
of love steps into the world.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo:@Thom-Shuman

First Friday in Lent

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.” Philippians 4:4

in moments when we tremble
with worry and our nights hum
with the uncertainty of tomorrow—
we rejoice in that quiet courage
you plant deep in ordinary hearts
when we walk down crumbling sidewalks
to sit beside the forgotten
in the shadows of dimming justice—
we rejoice for that grace-shaped song
you teach to weary lungs, reminding us
that hope still has a heartbeat.
when the influencers walk red carpets
woven from bitcoins and idolatry,
when the wealthy want bigger developments
and an end to discussion of affordable housing—
we rejoice that you do not step away
but choose them impenetrable days
to be where love is made incarnate
once again.
where brokenness is mended
by the gentle touch of a stranger,
where sorrow is given respite
through the laughter of children,
in that promise you made
from the beginning that we
will always be held in your heart,
we rejoice that you are as close
to us as the breath we take,
that we are becoming evidence
that your Beloved Community
is still unfolding in our midst—
and our rejoicing
becomes our resistance.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

First Thursday in Lent

Though the fig tree does not blossom,
and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails
and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold
and there is no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the LORD;
I will exult in the God of my salvation. Habakkuk 3:17-18

though hope withers in our streets
and the leaves of grace
curl in on themselves,
though our mornings are numbed
with wars, and storms, and children
struggling to cross hunger’s border—
still, you are here
Planter of quiet seeds.
when our pensions fall like temperatures,
when despair stitches our nights,
when grief refuses to take the hint
and get up and leave from our rooms,
and justice is rationed like famine’s bread—
still, we turn to you,
leaning like sunflowers to light.
for you do not walk away
from drought-scarred fields
nor hold your words as
you walk in the dust of dreams
you are the faint heartbeat
which stirs the ashes of life,
that whisper with a stronger life
than angry shouts.
so, until life returns,
we will sing with hoarse voices,
we will dance on uneven ground,
we will dig furrows in fields of fear
planting small seeds of mercy,
Joy which is present even
when the world says you have left,
remembering that you
are that harvest we are always
waiting for.

(c) 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman

Ash Wednesday

it is as if it is too shy
to want more attention—
smaller than you thought,
a smudge someone might mistake
as dirt from working in the garden,
or a playful mark from a child.
as you go through the day,
you might forget it is there
until you see someone’s eyes
turn soft as they notice,
the fast-food clerk pauses,
compassion touches you in
the simple silence of a stranger.
you see, ash remembers what
we think we can dismiss—
that in our ending is our beginning,
that even all the good we tried
to do will dissolve into dust.
ash also remembers the fire
of love, burning bright enough
so this trace can help us
to remember.as those ancient
words confront us once again:
we will return.
it is not a threat, but the promise
that nothing given in love
ever goes to waste
this day is not about shame,
but honesty marking our souls,
standing still just long enough
to admit that while fragile
we are beloved above all else.
it will disappear,
a quick mix of soap and water,
a soft cloth, and . . .
but the softer soul,
the silent heart
that whisper of love
reminds us of how dust
is always cradled
in the hands of grace.

© 2026 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman