The Expectant Hearth: A New Moon Devotional

A meditation on the Via Negativa

Invocation

Rain falls in, 
down the chimney 
a drop of fear,
a tear of loss,
a drip of pain,
a trace of emptiness.
The fire dies,
the ember endures.

In the darkness, still in our souls,
we are the waiting stone,
we are the hearth.
We are the prayer before words,
the heart of divine ember,
the faith in the shadowed flame.

Burn — glow — still — remain.

The Sacred Moment

Today, the new moon veils the sky, cloaking the heavens in silence and shadow. May we feel the call to surrender, to sacred unknowing, to the holy hush that dwells beneath words. In the deep darkness of the New Moon, we walk the path of the Via Negativa: the way of release, of letting fall what no longer serves, of listening for the presence hidden in absence. Our souls ache not for answers, but for peace within the questions, for a love that meets us in the void.

This is a moon to release, to empty, to rest.

Theme: The Patience of the Ember

Yahweh is good to those who wait for him, to the soul that seeks him. It is good that a man should hope and quietly wait for the salvation of Yahweh.

Lamentations 3:25–26

Yah is the name of the One we encounter in the world: present in wind and rain, in leaf and river, in every moment of shared breath. Ehyeh is the name of the One we encounter within: stirring in silence, whispering in the space between heartbeats, shaping us from the inside out.

Yah is good to those who wait, who seek the Divine not through mastery but through vulnerability, through trust, through a hope beyond themselves. This hope lives in the unseen: the glimmer in a friend’s eyes, the quiet rhythm of nature, the unexpected grace in a breath.

Waiting and hope are at the heart of the Via Negativa. This is not the hope of certainty, the kind that demands outcomes or proof. It is the hope of surrender, of releasing our tight grip on how things should unfold and stepping into the holy unknown. It is not impatient waiting, but of radical trust, where we trust in the mystery, in the slow alchemy of transformation, in the love that holds all things even when we cannot feel it.

We often enter this path through wounds we did not choose: through fear that unsettles us, through losses we carry like stones, through grief that echoes in the hollows of our being. A shadow falls over our souls, and it feels as though the light has gone out: within us, around us, or both. But even in the deepest dark, the ember endures. It glows unseen beneath the ash, a quiet promise that warmth is not lost, only hidden for a time. It waits, as we wait. It calls us not to despair but to a deeper stillness, the kind that does not flinch before emptiness, but honors it as sacred space.

In the darkness, still in our souls, we as hearth stone are the place of return, the ground where flame may be rekindled. Our lives become the prayers before words, the listening before any reply. We practice the discipline of expectant seeing, holding space without urgency. Like our mother Mary, we ponder all things in our hearts, letting them rest in us like seeds waiting for spring. We open ourselves to the spark, not demanding it, but making room. The fire returns as it will, when it will. This is the tinder for a flame born of surrender, rising not from striving, but from stillness and presence.

We are shaped in this rhythm: not rushing the burn, not clinging to the glow, not fearing the stillness, but remaining present, honest, and open. This quiet endurance is not passive resignation. It is sacred attention. It is the soul leaning into the mystery, trusting that the Spirit moves even in stillness. Even when the world feels paused, the ember glows. Even when the future feels far off, the hearth holds warmth in its memory.

This is the posture of the New Moon: stillness, openness, and sacred unknowing. We kneel not in defeat, but in reverence, as the hearth before it is lit. We do not demand warmth, but we bless the waiting. We honor the longing that lives in the dark, the ache that draws us closer to the heart of God. To wait in this way is an act of deep trust, a faith that does not rely on sight, but abides in what cannot yet be seen. We release the illusion of control and open our hands in readiness. We offer ourselves as vessels of quiet hope, prepared to receive what grace always comes: unexpected, unearned, and entirely enough.

For we were saved in hope, but hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for that which he sees? But if we hope for that which we don't see, we wait for it with patience.

Romans 8:24–25

The Practice of the Expectant Hearth

Let's open ourselves to the expectant waiting so we don't allow ourselves to wallow in the misery of the shadows.

Sit before an unlit hearth, candle, or a simple empty bowl. Let it remain unfilled, unlit. Let your gaze soften. Do not seek meaning. Simply witness the emptiness. Note what you feel. What is in this space?

Prayer: I make peace and open space for what is.

Kneel or sit in stillness. Notice the weight in and on your body, the tension in your breath, the coolness in your hands. Let your body speak. It knows how to wait. Do not rush. Let discomfort become an invitation.

Breath Practice: Inhale slowly: I am here. Exhale fully: I wait with grace. Repeat.

Tend this space. Gently sweep, wipe clean, arrange a hearth or altar (even if it is symbolic). Stack a few twigs or write down your hopes and place them in a bowl. Feel the care in each motion. You are preparing, not demanding.

Reflection: What can I clean, clear, or set aside to make space for grace?

Invite silence to be shared. Whether alone or with others, acknowledge the many who wait with you, in spirit or in memory. Speak their names aloud or in your heart. Remember those who have gathered around fires past. Let their presence deepen your silence.

Blessing: Even in stillness, I am not alone.

Place your hands over your heart. Feel your longing, not as something to fix or control, but as holy desire. Whisper your longing to the unlit flame or bowl. Then release it. Trust that it has been heard.

Closing Words: I await the fire, but will not force it. I tend. I trust. I wait.

When you are ready, take a few deep breaths and conclude.

Return to this practice throughout the dark moon phase. Let it shape your days with gentle hope. Let the hearth within you remain expectant, tended, and whole.

Closing Blessing

Go now with empty hands and open heart.

Trust the waiting.
Tend the hearth within.
The fire will come in its time.