I confess that I am a bit of a moon stalker. I love to follow its waxing and waning through the seasons. So, please indulge me as I ponder for a while. 

Tonight, a thin silver curve will appear, just a whisper of light at the edge of the sky. A new moon. It rises quietly, without fanfare, signalling the start of a new lunar month. For our Muslim neighbours, this new moon ushers in the sacred festival of Eid, a time of celebration, generosity, and gratitude after the fasting month of Ramadan. For us as Christians, this same moon lights the nights of Lent and will grow fuller and brighter until it presides over the night of Maundy Thursday, the night we remember the meal and the command, to love one another as Christ has loved us. It's a gift that the heavens give us, a shared sign. The same moon seen by shepherds in Bethlehem, the same moon that shone over the desert where Jesus Christ prayed and fasted, the same moon that hung heavy over Gethsemane, is the moon that tonight reveals itself anew.
Perhaps this year, as the new moon appears, we might choose to pay attention to it. We may watch it grow day by day until it reaches its fullness in the week we call holy. We may receive it as a gentle teacher, as a way of preparing our hearts for what lies ahead, as a companion in both celebration and contemplation. The new moon is the thinnest sliver of light, a reminder that beginnings often look small. They come quietly, wrapped in darkness and uncertainty. They do not yet reveal what they will become. And yet they are full of promise.
Tonight, our Muslim neighbours greet the new moon with celebration, marking Eid with feasting, visiting family, giving gifts, and offering charity to the poor. Eid begins not with fullness, but with this first fragile crescent. A reminder that spiritual renewal starts with something small: a prayer, a gratitude, a turning of the heart. As Christians still walking the Lenten journey, we might receive this moment alongside them. A new moon can pull us back to our beginnings—our baptismal vows, our early stirrings of faith, the first moment God felt near. It can call us back to the desire at the centre of Lent: to return to God with all our heart, to recommit ourselves to mercy, simplicity, and love.


The new moon also invites us to remember the wilderness. It was under a sky governed by the moon and its cycles that Jesus fasted for forty days. That wilderness time was not only a test but a preparation. It was the slow work of learning what truly sustained him. During those forty days, there would have been nights with almost no moon. Nights when the darkness was near total. And there would have been nights, as the weeks passed, when the moon grew brighter and the landscape shifted, shadows dissolving, paths becoming easier to see. The moon didn't remove the struggle. But it did accompany him.
In the same way, our Lenten season doesn't promise ease. But it does promise presence. God with us. God shaping us. God revealing the next small piece of light. If Jesus walked through nights where the moon was only a thin crescent, we too can walk faithfully through seasons where our hope is only a sliver. The wilderness is not a place of abandonment. It is a place where God meets us in the slow increase of light. From tonight until Maundy Thursday, the moon will change every single night. It will never stay still. It will grow, wax, brighten, round out, and then stand at its fullest on 2nd April (Maundy Thursday).
What if we let the moon become a devotional companion for the remaining days of Lent?
Here are some simple ways:


1. Watch the sky each evening

Noticing the moon can be a way of noticing God. Observe how it changes. Let its gradual brightening be a reminder that growth is often slow and still holy. If you are like me Take a photo and send it to a friend as a reminder of the journey


2. Pray for those celebrating EidAs the moon signals their holy day, may we pray blessing, peace, and joy for our Muslim neighbours. May their celebrations be safe, generous, and full of God’s love.


3. Let each stage of the moon speak to the stages of faithA crescent moon: A reminder that God often works with small beginnings. Pray for the parts of your life where light is only just emerging.
A half moon: Pray for balance—between work and rest, prayer and action, giving and receiving.
A nearly full moon: Pray for those longing for completeness—for healing, reconciliation, or the strength to persevere.
A full moon on Maundy Thursday night: The night when Christ gave the command to love as he loved. Let the brightness of the moon illuminate this calling in a fresh way.
In the Christian calendar, the date of Easter is determined by the moon. Easter Day falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon following the spring equinox. That means the moon has always been part of our story—guiding our feast, shaping our remembrance, marking our most sacred days.
When Maundy Thursday arrives this year, the moon above us will be full, round, and luminous. As we gather for worship, break bread, and recall Christ washing the feet of his friends, the light outside will echo the light Christ shares with the world. A full moon is unmissable. It demands attention. It floods the night with radiance (clear skies permitting). And on Maundy Thursday, that radiance sits alongside the tenderness of service, the vulnerability of love, and the looming shadow of betrayal. The full moon teaches us something important: that beauty and sorrow can coexist. That light and darkness can occupy the same night. And that even in the most difficult of human experiences, God’s glory is still present, still shining, still refusing to be extinguished.
One of the most beautiful things about the moon is that it belongs to everyone. It needs no passport, no translation. A child in the UK, a grandmother in Karachi, a farmer in Nigeria, and a nurse working a night shift in the city, all see the same face of the moon. Tonight, as Eid begins, and in the weeks to come as we approach Holy Week, we are united under this shared sky.
May the moon remind us that God’s love is wider than any one tradition and deeper than any one calendar. May it call us to honour the holy in our neighbours’ festivals and the holy in our own.
May it lead us, crescent by crescent, night by night, towards the fullness of Easter hope.


Go well

Karen

Dear friends,
Once again, we find ourselves in the midst of Lent, despite the fact Christmas still feels like yesterday. Yet here we are, our thoughts turning to reflection, quietness, and the slow unfurling of hope. And, as I write this, I notice that the snowdrops have appeared—delicate, determined, as if they just couldn’t wait to remind us that winter never has the final word.
I think there is something beautifully reassuring about snowdrops. Long before the daffodils spill out their sunshine-yellow joy, before the hedgerows thicken, before the clocks spring forward, these tiny white lanterns push through the cold hard ground and whisper a gentle truth: new life is already on its way. Even when the air is sharp and the skies undecided, snowdrops bloom anyway. What better companions for Lent could we ask for?
Lent itself is often described as a season of stripping back, of travelling light, of letting go of what we no longer need. The snowdrop embodies this simplicity. No fuss, or flourish, just a slender green stem holding a fragile white. It doesn’t seem to demand attention, yet it draws the eye. It doesn’t seem to shout for recognition, yet it brings a smile. It reminds us that beauty often begins quietly.
Some people call snowdrops “Candlemas bells,” because they typically bloom around the time we celebrate Christ as the Light of the World. Others call them “February fairmaids.” Whatever name you prefer, they have a habit of appearing right when our spirits need lifting. Perhaps we might find ourselves pausing on a morning walks to admire them. I always think their gentle glow give me a feeling of hope.
Snowdrops can offer us a kind of spiritual invitation. They ask us to notice the small things, the subtle gifts, the understated graces that God scatters throughout our days. We often look for God in loud miracles or dramatic moments, but Lent teaches us that holiness is just as present in the quiet corners of our lives. A cup of tea shared. A kind word. A moment of stillness. The snowdrop-sized mercies that keep us going.
As we journey through these forty days, I invite you to take the snowdrop as your seasonal teacher. Here are just a few of its lessons:
Perseverance doesn’t need to be loud.
Snowdrops push through cold ground and frost without complaint. They remind us that strength can be gentle, resilient, and quietly faithful. Lent invites us to grow in this same steady way—not through dramatic resolutions, but through daily, simple acts of trust.
Light finds a way.
Even on grey days, snowdrops seem to glow from within. They reflect the truth that Christ’s light has a habit of reaching into even the chilliest corners of our lives. In Lent, we make space for that light, letting it warm us slowly but surely.
New beginnings often start small.
A blanket of snowdrops begins with a single bud. Likewise, renewal in our lives rarely arrives all at once. It begins with small choices: a prayer, a moment of honesty, a gentle turning back toward God. Lent encourages us to start with what we can manage, trusting that growth will follow.
Vulnerability is not weakness.
A snowdrop’s petals look fragile, yet they withstand winter winds. Their strength lies not in armour, but in design. Lent invites us to bring our authentic selves before God—fears, doubts, hopes and all—trusting that we are held securely in divine love.
Snowdrops also remind us to lift our heads. Although, their blossoms hang downwards, if you have ever lifted a single bloom you know the beauty hidden within. Lent calls us to do the same: to gently lift our gaze, to look for signs of grace, to notice where God is already at work in and around us. Sometimes we need only tilt our perspective a little to see what has been shining beneath the surface all along.
As the weeks of Lent unfold, more signs of spring will join the snowdrops—daffodils, blackbirds, lighter evenings, the first hints of warmth. But there is something particularly special about these early white flowers. They bloom before conditions are right, before the world looks ready, and before most other things dare to grow. They bloom on trust.
May this Lent bring you snowdrop moments—tiny bursts of courage, pockets of unexpected peace, and the quiet assurance that God is gently bringing new life to every part of your journey. May you feel held, guided, and encouraged as you walk through this beautiful season of hope.
Go well
Karen