MY LEAST FAVORITE SEASON--LENT!
I don't know about you, but Lent is not my favorite season of the year. I am a fail at deprivation, witness my sad attempts to rein in my Amazon purchases, then trying to follow Weight Watchers to erase belly fat after 2 surgeries ad chemo. Nope. Give me chocolateeee.....
As a kid, I'd listen avidly to friends on the playground talking about what they planned to give up for Lent. Lent? What the heck was that? Being a red-diaper baby and the daughter of non-believers, God was rarely mentioned in our family--unless as a swear as Mom made supper--and Lent was a mystery to me.
Was it about bubble gum or chocolate, or perhaps my favorite of all, Juicy Fruit gum? We were far too young to be giving up wine, so that was not on the radar as a sacrifice for the season. I simply did not "get" this. The only thing I got for sure was that I desperately, fiercely, passionately desired a frilly Easter dress with shiny black patent leather shoes and a matching handbag. And please do not forget the nifty Easter bonnet which apparently came with its very own song.
Years later I began to "get" Lent after my own family went through some horrific times. I finally understood suffering. I then realized I could attach my own pain to that of Jesus and the Way of the Cross. One sobby night in bed, a sudden, blinding insight showed me that no matter how bad things seemed in my life, I always had a companion, someone to walk beside me. Comfort does not begin to describe this epiphany.
I was not alone. Not ever. Not in the past, the present, or the future. And with this epiphany came another, which flamed ahead of me like a torch in the dark--even if I sank down into suffering again, through the resurrection I would rise up on eagles' wings, as our choir so beautifully sang, as the Rev. Peter Ives so powerfully preached.
Anne Lamott spoke of her conversion to Christianity in "Traveling Mercies," and wrote of how she would lie in bed in the morning, sometimes gripping a crumpled up kleenex and imagining it was the hand of Jesus holding hers. For me, this is not a metaphor but a reality.
I firmly believe that God is always searching for us, reaching out to us, maybe even more fiercely than we search for Her. So, come tomorrow morning, hold out your hand; imagine a larger, warmer hand enfolding yours; and that will be your very own Easter, your very own Resurrection.
As a kid, I'd listen avidly to friends on the playground talking about what they planned to give up for Lent. Lent? What the heck was that? Being a red-diaper baby and the daughter of non-believers, God was rarely mentioned in our family--unless as a swear as Mom made supper--and Lent was a mystery to me.
Was it about bubble gum or chocolate, or perhaps my favorite of all, Juicy Fruit gum? We were far too young to be giving up wine, so that was not on the radar as a sacrifice for the season. I simply did not "get" this. The only thing I got for sure was that I desperately, fiercely, passionately desired a frilly Easter dress with shiny black patent leather shoes and a matching handbag. And please do not forget the nifty Easter bonnet which apparently came with its very own song.
Years later I began to "get" Lent after my own family went through some horrific times. I finally understood suffering. I then realized I could attach my own pain to that of Jesus and the Way of the Cross. One sobby night in bed, a sudden, blinding insight showed me that no matter how bad things seemed in my life, I always had a companion, someone to walk beside me. Comfort does not begin to describe this epiphany.
I was not alone. Not ever. Not in the past, the present, or the future. And with this epiphany came another, which flamed ahead of me like a torch in the dark--even if I sank down into suffering again, through the resurrection I would rise up on eagles' wings, as our choir so beautifully sang, as the Rev. Peter Ives so powerfully preached.
Anne Lamott spoke of her conversion to Christianity in "Traveling Mercies," and wrote of how she would lie in bed in the morning, sometimes gripping a crumpled up kleenex and imagining it was the hand of Jesus holding hers. For me, this is not a metaphor but a reality.
I firmly believe that God is always searching for us, reaching out to us, maybe even more fiercely than we search for Her. So, come tomorrow morning, hold out your hand; imagine a larger, warmer hand enfolding yours; and that will be your very own Easter, your very own Resurrection.
Saw your article in St. Anthony Messenger. God Bless You. I went through Ovarian CA and chemo. Never would I ever want anyone to experience that again. Just wanted to say hello and know you are never alone in struggles.
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