Nieuws

Deze reflectie beschrijft de Veertigdagentijd als een periode van innerlijke vernieuwing, die ons uitnodigt om terug te keren naar God door gebed, vasten, stilte en mededogen. Met het beeld van de Atacamawoestijn in Chili, waar zeldzame regen de dorre grond verandert in een zee van bloemen, wordt duidelijk gemaakt hoe Gods genade het verborgen goede in ons kan laten ontwaken.

Aan de hand van bijbelse beelden en spirituele inzichten wordt de woestijn een symbool van bekering en ontmoeting: een plaats waar God nieuw leven brengt in wat droog of levenloos lijkt, zoals in het visioen van de dorre beenderen of in Jezus’ veertig dagen in de woestijn. De Veertigdagentijd gaat minder om uiterlijke inspanning en meer om innerlijke openheid, om stil te worden en aandachtig te luisteren naar Gods aanwezigheid in ons.

Door kleine daden van liefde, vergeving, geduld en vrijgevigheid geven we ruimte aan genade om ons hart te vernieuwen. Zoals zaden wachten op regen, zo kan ook onze innerlijke woestijn in stilte tot bloei komen op weg naar Pasen.

Reflectie tekst in het Engels

Each year, as we prepare for Easter, the Church invites us to enter more deeply into its ancient practices of fasting and self-denial, almsgiving, and a renewed commitment to prayer and silence so that we may listen more attentively to God’s Word. By responding to God’s call, “Come back to me with all your heart” (Joel 2:12–13), we seek, in this sacred season, to be more open and ready to grow in our relationship with God, with ourselves, and with one another.

As I reflected on Lent as a time of inner renewal, a vivid memory returned to me. A few years ago, a Steyler sister from Chile shared extraordinary photographs of the Desierto Florido, the “flowering desert” of the Atacama, the driest place on Earth. Every four or five years, after a rare rainfall, something astonishing happens: the barren ground awakens. Overnight, thousands of hidden seeds respond to the moisture, and the desert erupts into a sea of color. What once seemed lifeless becomes radiant. What appeared impossible suddenly stands before us in full bloom.

This transformation is more than a natural wonder; it is a metaphor for our spiritual journey. Lent, too, is a season when something long dormant can quietly begin to stir. It is a time when we are invited to step into our own inner landscape, not to judge it, but to notice it. To see what perhaps has been neglected, what longs for light, what waits for rain. It is in the silence of the wilderness where we can hear God’s voice telling us, “Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest…and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Mt.11:28-30)

Henry Nouwen once wrote that “the desert is the place of conversion, the place where the old self dies, and the new self is born.” In the Bible, the desert is never just a physical location. It is more than a place of dryness; it is a sacred space of encounter, a threshold where illusions fall away, trust is challenged, and the truth of the human condition becomes clearer. Abraham walked into the desert without knowing where he was going. Moses discovered a burning bush that refused to be consumed. Elijah heard God not in the wind or the fire, but in a whisper. The people of Israel learned, step by step, to trust the God who “led them with a cloud by day and with a light of fire all night” (Ex 13:21).

Scripture offers another striking image of transformation in a barren place. In the book of Ezekiel, the prophet is led by God into a valley of dry bones, a land of utter desolation. God asks him, “Can these bones live?” (Ez 37:3). It is a question that echoes through every human heart. Ezekiel watches as breath enters what was lifeless, and the bones rise, restored and renewed. This vision is not only about people being brought back to life; it is about the mysterious way God’s Spirit moves through what seems beyond hope. Even in the driest valleys of our lives, something within us still waits for breath, still holds the possibility of rising.

This vision also reminds us that beneath our fears, our wounds, and the layers of self-protection we accumulate over time, there remains a deeper truth: our original goodness. It is easy to forget this. Our false selves, shaped by expectations, disappointments,  hurts, or narrow ways of seeing ourselves, can obscure the quiet radiance of our God’s likeness and image placed within us from the beginning. Lent invites us to reconnect with that hidden center, not by denying our limitations, wounds, and shortcomings but by remembering that they do not define us. While a part of us may need healing, it is essential to trust that God dwells within us. From that place of inner grounding, we can walk through the aridity and darkness of life without fear, knowing that the One who breathes life into dry bones also breathes life into us.

And something else happens when we reconnect with our own goodness: we begin to see the goodness in others. The more we recognize the quiet beauty within ourselves, the more attuned we become to the needs, struggles, and hopes of those around us. In a world often marked by negativity, indifference, and ego-driven attitudes, this capacity to see goodness and manifest appreciation becomes a quiet act of love. This spiritual discipline enriches and transforms us.  

As Lent begins, we remember Jesus being led by the Spirit into the desert, preparing him for his public life. His forty days were not a scape from reality, rather a way to go deeper into it.  In that time of silence, fasting, and solitude, he faced the human questions: What sustains me? What do I trust? What truly matters? His humility and fidelity to the Father are a path that we can follow.

Lent, then, is less about effort or outward actions and more about openness and interiority. It is not a season of proving ourselves but of rediscovering ourselves. It invites us to pause, to slow down enough to notice the inner movements we often overlook, to listen to the quiet, small voice that echoes our longing for peace, connection, justice, compassion, and freedom. It is a time to let the heart breathe and be more grounded in God’s compassionate presence.

And in a world that often moves too quickly, the simple act of pausing becomes a quiet stance of peace and loving-kindness. A pause is not an interruption but a return: a return to ourselves, to what matters, to the presence of God already within us. When we pause, even briefly, we create room for clarity to emerge. We begin to notice what we usually overlook: the tension we carry, the longing beneath our distractions, the quiet invitations that rise from within. A pause allows us to meet life not with automatic reactions but with a more grounded, spacious awareness. 

This kind of pause is not passive; it is transformational. It is a way of deep listening to our bodies, our emotions, our thoughts, our day-to-day experiences, and to God’s gentle movement within them. It is a way of becoming aware that we are more than our worries, more than our roles, more than the work we accomplish,  more than the noise around us. In the stillness, we reconnect with the goodness that God planted in us from the beginning. And when we touch that goodness, even for a moment, something shifts: we begin to see the world differently. We become more attentive and compassionate to others and more responsible in caring for all that God has made. Our lives can then reveal more clearly that love of God and love of neighbor are not separate paths, but one single movement of the heart.

This inner work naturally flows into concrete gestures, small, simple practices that shape the heart. This season prepares the soil of our hearts so that something new can emerge. Each of us can find simple, creative ways to return God’s  goodness and compassion to the world, for example, by:

-         pausing to listen with real presence to someone who is hurting

-         softening our harsh judgments of ourselves and others

-         fasting from the need to be busy, productive, or in control

-         forgive a long-held resentment

-         offering patience where irritation rises quickly

-         choosing words that restore rather than wound

-         giving generously to those who are struggling

-         pausing to pray and discern our choices and decisions

-         persevering in quiet prayer, becoming freer to love

These gestures are not tasks to accomplish but ways of creating space for grace. They are small openings through which God can breathe life into our dry places, just as rain awakens the hidden seeds of the desert.

If the desert teaches us anything, it is that transformation rarely happens loudly. It unfolds quietly, patiently, beneath the surface. God’s work in us is often like rain falling on unseen seeds—unnoticed at first, yet deeply effective.

And just as the Atacama Desert blooms after long seasons of dryness, so too can the inner deserts of our hearts. Not because we force them to, but because grace has a way of softening what has grown hard and turning stony hearts into hearts of flesh (Ez 36:26). Let’s hope that as we journey toward Easter, may we allow ourselves to be surprised by what begins to change and grow within and around us.  May we notice the subtle ways God works in us and through us, often quietly, always merciful, doing “infinitely more than all we can ask or imagine” (Eph 3:20).

Sr. María Cristina Ávalos SSpS

She is a member of the International Coordinating Team of the Arnold Janssen Spirituality Network in Steyl.