Lent is, well, a pain. In recent years, it’s turned into something that I personally struggle with into something that I also have to wrench my family through.
It’s a desert, alright. A big, fat, empty, pain-in-my-rear-end desert.
So why do I bother?
I end up asking myself that for the first time at about lunchtime on Ash Wednesday. There’s all this fasting and fasting and fasting. It’s fun for 25 minutes, and then it’s old. Real old, real fast.
I usually ask myself again into the second week, when I’m out of stamina and I realize this is going to be hard.
By the fourth week of Lent–Laetare and joy notwithstanding–I’m sick of asking myself why I bother. I’ve given up on myself. Maybe I’m still going strong, but something’s usually quirky within me, not quite right.
Is that how it’s supposed to be?
Just this year I started realizing how failing at Advent prepares me in a unique way for failing at Lent.
Maybe Lent’s not about what *I* plan. Maybe Lent isn’t a chance for me to glow or shine or rock. Maybe Lent’s something different. Something more. Something better.
The thing is, it doesn’t FEEL better. I’m a control freak Type A planner. I want to know what’s coming, how it’s coming, and in what packaging I can expect it to arrive. I’d like a list organized alphabetically–bullet points would be nice, but I can live without them–with dates and targets in the margin.
God, however, seems to have a different idea for my spiritual growth.
Every year that I’ve attempted to “do Lent,” I’ve failed by the standards I set. And every year, once Lent’s over, I realize that the six weeks has changed me, nudged me, altered me.
That’s why I bother. It’s a pain. It’s a challenge. And it’s something I need!
Copyright © 2013, Sarah Reinhard
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