The Liminal Space of February

February has always been an odd little month, hasn’t it, usually perched between winter and spring, Christmas and Lent. I’ve been in a bit of a liminal space myself, honestly, these past few weeks.

Some of you may remember me talking about my Aunt Ellen on Instagram—about how she is a joy and a treasure, the funniest, smartest, most generous and genuinely fun person you could imagine. About how she and my mom are two peas in a pod, and how I spent a good chunk of my childhood listening to them laugh from the backseat as we went on endless adventures together. About her sixth round of chemo following her diagnosis in 2016. About how in August we learned that she is out of options.

I was able to see her at my cousin’s wedding in October, and last week I went to visit her at her home in North Carolina. She is in hospice care now, and gratefully not in pain. It’s very hard for us to lose her. But she is completely at peace. It is an incredible thing to see. Being there with her, doing my best to reflect that peace back to her, was a truly holy experience.

My mom, my younger aunt, their closest childhood friend, my cousins, my uncle—we all crowded around Ellen and her tiny dog Bea on the couch, just loving, loving so brightly and brilliantly that an object for the verb wasn’t necessary. The love was too large to settle in any particular place. It filled the room.

We told stories and laughed and listened to Johnny Cash and sang. We worked crosswords and knitted and stitched needlework. We gave Ellen foot rubs and fetched her water. One day she felt good enough to go to a coffeehouse. An unexpected gift. One night she felt good enough to sit out by the fire in the backyard. An unexpected gift.

I don’t have much experience with this kind of loss, but one thing that surprised me with its unmissable clarity was this: Ellen doesn’t need anything from us. She is a woman of tremendous faith, and it carries her. She has told us many times that she has no regrets. And so the way that she is comforting us in this time just truly cracks my heart wide open.

Your prayers and kindness do, too. Below is a photo my friend Kathy sent me of an altar outside a Mexican bakery where she prayed for our family. I’m more convinced than ever that what passes between us humans, the threads that bind us together in love, in grief, in hope—are some of the holiest things that this earth will ever house.

So, this February, as false spring has arrived right on schedule in Seattle, bearing camellia blooms and spice viburnum buds, that’s where my mind and heart are. Somewhere between life and death. Somewhere suspended in the depths of love. I hope that wherever you are, you are finding yourself surrounded by tender care, too.

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This is the first year in a while that I do not have a new Lent devotional for you. I’m glad I listened to my inner prompting and the Holy Spirit telling me to take a break for a bit, to focus on other projects, but I’ll miss making this journey with you!

I’m going to be spending Lent with a little book of prayers, poems, and reflections that my friend Emily put together. And I’m also going to start the Spiritual Exercises again. I won’t finish by Easter, since doing them in everyday life is an eight-month process, but I’m excited to begin again, as St. Benedict calls us to do. I have been craving a return to that depth of prayer and listening, that attention to the sacred text of my own life. I’ve always felt that the Spiritual Exercises bring an integration of my work and my prayer life, and I’m looking forward to entering back into that symmetry like slipping into a warm bath.

Let me know what you’re doing, or better yet, how you’re hoping to be, during Lent.

Wishing you all a beautiful (liminal) February,
Cameron