Today is the second Sunday in Lent. I often give something up for Lent. I have enough of a disordered approach to food that I do not do well when I cut out foods or drinks (one year in college I cut out caffeine, and never again. My poor professors and friends!). In the past I have cut out social media, tv, etc, which has gone well. Last year I did give up social media, and a habit that I brought with me out of Lent was to move those apps off of my home page on my phone, as well as set up timers on apps on my phone, so I can be more aware of how I’m spending my time.
So I do often give up something for Lent. But this year… We’ve been fortunate during Covid, we’ve both kept out jobs, we’ve both stayed well. But we’ve lost so much more than that. We’ve lost a lot of community time, we’ve lost loved ones, we’ve lost the simple pleasures of lingering in a coffee shop or smelling fruit at the farmer’s market. We’ve lost the space to hug closely and deeply. We’ve lost the ability to gather at the Table for communion. We’ve cut down significantly on travel, exploration, time with family — all heavy losses.
So with all that still hovering, marked as we are by so much loss, so much missing in our daily and our ordinary, I am choosing to add.
I am adding movement. I’m being more intentional with my body during this season. We recently bought a rowing machine, and I’m trying to use that throughout the week, plus adding in more intentional walks, some yoga in the evenings. I have a love-hate relationship with working out, with treating my body with respect, and I have found that I have to enjoy the activity to be consistent with it. It’s taken most of a year with Covid restrictions for me to find that happy place again, but now that it’s here, I’m trying to enjoy it. I’m trying to look at my body as I would another loved one: I want you safe, I want you cared for, I want you healthy for as long as possible.
I am adding growth. We are working on getting our yard ready for our first spring in this house, and we’ve been slowly chipping away at the bedraggled shrubs and bushes in our yard. We have grand ideas that include a greenhouse, fish pond, raised garden beds, berry bushes on trellises, wildflowers… Right now we have a lavender bush in a pot on the porch, a hyacinth bulb on the window sill, and some aquaponics lettuces and herbs under a grow light in Jon’s office. But the dreams are there – the goals – and we are moving towards that growth.
I am adding quiet. Last weekend I went on a silent retreat, for my spiritual direction class, and also for me. I walked along the coast, sat in the wind and the rain, and just listened. I came back to the studio airbnb I’d rented, and curled in front of the gas fireplace, listening. Now that I’m home, back full tilt into my work schedule, I’m working on adding quiet to my mornings and my drives. Instead of filling myself up with words – podcasts, social media, music – I’m working on allowing the grace of quiet to bring me to a different place before work.
I am adding Scripture. I’m reading the whole Bible during Lent this year, which has brought some unexpected lessons already. So far I’ve been listening to it, and I’ve chosen to use The Message, for the audiobook aspect of it. At this point I’ve gotten through II Samuel.
But I’ve been struck by how often Israel is reminded God is THEIR God. Nearly every time God is mentioned, it is “God, your God,” to remind us that any other gods cannot claim us. No other gods can direct us or instruct us. God moves among His people precisely because they are His. He alone can claim, direct, instruct, love us, the way He does. The people of God belong to God – and the God of the people belongs to the people.
Lent is a season of reflection, of penitence, of waiting — we wait on the calendar, for Easter to arrive, but it’s more than that. In the ancient church, and in some Orthodox churches today, Lent is used as a time to prepare new converts for baptism. To explore their theology and to understand what they are signing up for. Then when Easter arrives, it’s a time of celebration – baptisms, feasting, joy, singing, freedom. Lent, in contrast, is a time of reflection, of listening, of repentance, of obedience.
We see the reflection of 40 days of Lent in Christ’s 40 days in the desert, in the rain falling for 40 days and 40 nights when Noah was in the Ark. We have a sense of fullness, of completion, as we wait. That doesn’t necessarily make it easier — but we have a chance to remember that this season is not one of enforced lack, but one of chosen opportunities.
Christ asks us to prepare with Him — like the disciples praying in the Garden, we are to wait for this next season. But we so often forget that in the waiting, there’s life, too. The spring flowers don’t suddenly come to life; they’re there, waiting, growing, preparing for the right moment. They are called to live out their lives, quiet, ordinary lives, full of grace and pointing the way, by the God who created them for that purpose. They belong to God, and they spring forth from their winter beds of rest, ready for their glorious day to shine.
Like the spring flowers, I’ve been slumbering. I’ve been struggling with movement and growth, and since I can’t see it from the outside, it’s easy to assume it’s not happening at all. But this season is not about how I am performing. Like in The Message, God is still my God, even when it feels like I cannot see Him at work. So this Lent, I am adding: growth, movement, quiet, truth. Choosing to trust in the timing of spring. Choosing to trust that when God claimed me, He gave me the freedom to claim Him as well.
perhaps the greater 