As one whose years are ebbing, I’m grateful that I do NOT have to huddle and fold up, wintry in soul, even though I could receive, if I wished, receive daily ashes to remind me to be humble daily. Soul does not age. Soul simply unfolds. And the dusty path stretches on before me.
I know people who are struggling to let go of life. It is a life-long natural inclination to grasp for life always. Consider the tiny flowers that manage to grow up against all odds between the concrete seams in a sidewalk or path. I too can be born again and again.
I pray that God, as Burns suggests, will “assist me to resign” when it is time for me to relinquish this life I have known and still cling to. I will resist. I will weep. I will pray. I will hug and cling. And I will trust, just like the birds who awaken me each day as they start their song in the darkness before the sun rises.
WINTER DIRGE by Robert Burns
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (O, do Thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
