By Cathie Ostapchuk

The second week of Lent always feels quieter to me. Maybe it’s because so many have flown to warmer climates and sandy beaches, I’m not sure – but yup, it’s pretty quiet.

The first week carries the weight of Ash Wednesday — the stark reminder that we are dust, dependent, finite. There is something bracing and clarifying about beginning there. But by week two, the symbolism has settled and what remains is the lived experience of it. The wilderness is no longer theoretical. It feels closer to home.

Over the past month I have been sitting with a small group of women leaders in what we called a Winter Listening Space. It was not strategic. It was not outcome-driven. We were not building anything or launching anything. We were simply listening — to God, to one another, and to what we were honestly carrying.

And there was grief in that room.

Grief over opportunities that quietly disappeared. Grief over ministries that did not become what we once imagined. Grief over being talked over, overlooked, or asked to carry more than we had strength for. Grief over the subtle erosion that can happen when you are strong for everyone else for too long.

No one tried to solve it. No one offered tidy conclusions. We let the ache be what it was.

But what caught me off guard was this: beneath the grief, there was also hope.

Not naïve hope. Not the kind that demands immediate turnaround. But a steadier, more rooted hope. A hope that God is not finished with us. A hope that the Church can grow deeper and wiser. A hope that leadership shaped by formation rather than performance is still possible. A hope that our hidden work matters even when it is unseen.

That is what I am BEHOLDING this second week of Lent.

The wilderness is not empty; it is layered. We are capable of carrying sorrow and expectancy at the same time. Lent does not rush us toward Easter, but it also does not abandon us in barrenness. It reminds us that resurrection always begins beneath the surface, in places where no one is applauding and nothing looks impressive yet.

Roots grow in the dark. And roots are what make spring possible.

Perhaps this week’s invitation is simply to stay present long enough to notice what is still alive in you. What longing has not disappeared? What vision, even if reshaped, still flickers? What prayer continues to rise when everything else feels uncertain?

In that listening space, I realized that grief has not erased our hope. It has refined it. We are less interested in platform and more interested in wholeness. Less driven by visibility and more anchored in faithfulness. There is a quieter strength emerging — one that does not need immediate bloom to believe that growth is happening.

To live well and lead whole in this season may mean holding both the ache and the anticipation without trying to resolve the tension too quickly.

BEHOLD the wilderness — not as punishment, not as failure, but as formation.
Even now, beneath the surface of what feels unfinished, God is strengthening something in you that will carry future fruit.
And, my friend, that quiet, resilient hope you are still carrying? It is already a sign of spring.

If you are still in winter, but longing for spring, you are not alone. Many women have found **The Studio** to be that pathway — a space where you are formed gently, honestly, from the inside out. Not pressured into bloom, but nurtured toward it. Click **here** for more information.

And as we step into our BEHOLD year — marking ten years of Gather Women — we are reminded that this work continues only because this community believes in it. If you’ve been nourished here, would you consider helping sustain it? A monthly gift of $20 or $50 helps ensure Canadian women continue to be connected, formed, and mobilized.

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