Enjoying the View from Here

Well, I guess I cut my vacation short. Thank you to everyone who let me know that my words do matter. It means more than you can imagine.

I used to hate Lent with every fiber of my being. I remember writing blog posts about it in the hope that someone would read them and say something like, “Wow. Hate? Why do you think that is?” I don’t recall it ever happening. Instead, if anyone bothered to get their eyes on my words, I was either unaware of it, or they let me know they had read it by telling me why I was wrong to feel the way I did.

If I had gotten a genuinely curious inquiry, I might have been able (not sure) to tell them that I hated Lent because it was a daily reminder that there was always something more to be done, that I could never possibly overcome my failings, that I’d never be good enough, and that someone, somewhere, was just waiting to point the finger.

On an Ash Wednesday here or there, I’d get a homily from a priest or catch a social media post from a Catholic with ashes on her forehead telling me that “God doesn’t want sacrifice. He wants you to spend time with Him in prayer or do something to show that you love your neighbor.” So I might stop giving up chocolate or stop committing to a hard sacrifice like not buying books. I’d choose a “religious” book for those forty days, and when I inevitably came up with an empty feeling in my soul at Easter, I’d tell myself that I must be doing it wrong, that I still hadn’t found the right answer.

The next year, it would be a different book, a different strategy, like deciding that peace of heart was the way to go, then praying for it and working damn hard to make sure nothing ruffled my feathers, that no complaint about another meatless Friday or another pile of dishes in the sink ever escaped my lips.

I know that some Christians think we should just give it all to God, which to me is the same as saying, “Stop trying.” I don’t work that way, and I don’t think God works that way. It seems to me that if God knew me before He formed me in the womb, He’d know how He wants my earthly life to go, and since He’s a loving God, he probably doesn’t want it to be a shit show. What’s more, I don’t think that He created this world so we can get in and out of it as quickly as possible, never really appreciating it because we’re always looking for the next one. It strikes me as a slap in the face to God to say, “Yes, the rivers, trees, flowers, animals, and humans that You created are lovely, but everything else kind of sucks, so take me someplace better.” Why would He give us bodies that produce emotions like anger and hate if we are never supposed to feel those things? Is life just a test that God has devised, a test we’re likely to fail if we listen to those bodies that He gave us? Sorry, Paul and Augustine, but I don’t believe that God wants us to split our souls from our bodies. If that were the case, why wouldn’t He have done it in the first place?

Do those questions make you uncomfortable? I used to be afraid to ask such things. Not anymore. And you know what? When I was adding a pinch of salt to my just-poured and still-steaming second cup of coffee, I glanced at the Tiffany calendar on the wall in front of me and remembered that today is Friday and it’s the season of Lent. That made me think, Oh, okay. Pasta for dinner and molasses in my lunchtime crepe instead of turkey and mascarpone. Since I live in a house with children who still go to church, we continue to play by that rule. It’s what they want, and I am happy to oblige.