Looking back, part 2

This was the second part of the piece that popped up on my laptop; it was one of my earliest blogs and because it, too, relates to Lent, I thought I would repost it:

The other day, someone asked me what I was doing for Lent. I think she expected to hear, “I gave up chocolate.” Instead, I told her I am spending Lent focusing on the lessons I learned during my friend Jim’s illness.

Throughout his illness, the words “fear is useless; what is needed is trust” (Luke 8:50) helped me cope. I said them every day—and most days, many times. This Lent, I am trying to be aware of when I am fearful and to let it go, so I can live in trust and openness to what God is doing.

While Jim was sick, we spent some time at the New Jersey Shore; he loved looking out at the ocean. “Think big thoughts,” he would say as he contemplated the beauty of nature and the abundance of God’s blessings. I am trying to think big thoughts, to appreciate all aspects of my life and to thank God for my many blessings.

One of my favorite moments from the Shore happened one morning as I was walking along the water’s edge. The ocean was absolutely calm, no waves anywhere. As I walked, I noticed the broken shells on the sand, and I knew God was telling me: “This Ocean is a sign of my peace. It is how you are to live—in calm and peace, open, expansive. This is what freedom looks like. At the shoreline, at your edges, leave anything sharp or broken and flow back to the calm openness, the expansiveness.” I am trying to live in the vast freedom God offers me, letting go of anything that gets in the way of being calm and at peace.

This Lent, I am keeping the chocolate—and giving up those things that keep me from trust, gratitude and peace.

The New Jersey shore

P.S. Nine years later, I did give up chocolate candy for Lent this year (along with other forms of fasting) because I wanted to do some things that felt like sacrifices, and I enjoy chocolate candy every day. I am deeply aware of the people in Ukraine this Lent and fasting reminds me of people who are suffering while I live in abundance. Fasting reminds me of my dependence on God, and with every meal I skip, I offer a prayer for peace in Ukraine and other places in the world where there is no peace.  

Easter joy

Every year for Lent, my parish distributes a daily reflection booklet that begins with a “plan your Lent” section. We are encouraged to spend some time with God discerning which Lenten disciplines will help us grow closer to God. Over the course of the forty days, there are reminders to check back on our “plan” to see if we are on track or if the plan needs to be tweaked.

That booklet is followed by an Easter version, with daily reflections for the fifty days of the Easter season. But there is no “plan” involved.

I recently read an article that suggested we Catholics are very good at Lent—the whole world can see our ashes to start the season and we share openly what we are giving up, etc.

But how are we at celebrating Easter? Can the world see that something has happened which makes us incredibly joyful and celebratory? Are we different because of Easter?

For most of my twenties, I lived in southern Virginia, a minority Catholic in a sea of Southern Baptists. A woman from work once took me to a revival, where the preacher spent a fair amount of time talking about Catholics. That seemed a bit odd to me because I could not recall ever hearing a Catholic priest talk about Southern Baptists.

This preacher wanted his audience to know that Catholics did not believe in the resurrection and were, therefore, not saved.

Afterward, I asked my companion why the preacher thought Catholics did not believe in the resurrection.

“Crucifixes,” she said.

What?

She explained that having crosses with the body of Christ still on them was proof that Catholics did not believe in the resurrection.

That memory returned to me as I pondered this article about how Catholics celebrate Easter and made me question my own response to the resurrection.

The disciplines of Lent are so clear—prayer, fasting and almsgiving. But what marks the Easter season?

Reflecting on the past two weeks, I can honestly say that I have not been singing Alleluia every day, and I doubt that anyone would say I have been more joyful these past two weeks or that there is any discernible difference in me.

Why is that? And what would need to change to make this time more joyful?

Throughout the Easter season, we hear stories of the early Church community, about how Jesus’ disciples preached boldly and cured the sick. The Acts of the Apostles tells us how these super-excited Christians prayed together and cared for one another, sharing everything they had and being especially mindful of those most vulnerable among them.

Perhaps prayer, fasting and almsgiving are the disciplines of Easter, but instead of being done from a position of penitence, they are carried out in a spirit of freedom, joy and deep gratitude.

The early Christians were dramatically changed by Jesus’ resurrection; they embraced a completely new way of living. I wonder how open I am to a new way of living.

Temptations

Thirty years ago, my co-worker and I were part of an evaluation team for a nonprofit organization in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. We were to spend a week there in mid-October, and we packed work and casual clothes—plus winter gear, since Winnipeg in October was as cold as mid-winter in Philadelphia.

Our evaluation team spent the first day in intensive interviews with the nonprofit’s staff and then the next three days meeting program participants. Part of each day involved time with the staff, and we got to know them fairly well in a short period of time.

On the third day, my co-worker confided in me, “I think I packed more clothes for this one week that the staff have in their whole wardrobes.”

I could see her point. She had brought at least two different outfits for each day—complete with shoes and purses—while the staff wore the same shoes every day and on the third day were wearing what they had worn on the first.

I was somewhere in the middle of this wardrobe continuum.

Later, when I moved to Winnipeg, the contrast became even clearer to me. The truth was that people who earned about as much money as I did bought fewer clothes. When I returned to the States after living in Winnipeg for a few years, all of my clothes fit into one small closet.

This memory came back to me the other day when James Neal invited his readers to reflect on modern-day slavery and to take a survey at End Slavery Now.

We begin Lent reflecting on the temptations of Christ in the desert and how those temptations appear in our lives. I think of the temptations as the accumulation of material goods, the desire for power and the worship of idols; and I could spend more than the first week of Lent gaining a deeper understanding into how these temptations infect and affect my life.

Each day this week, my Lenten reflection book has offered insight into different ways we might get hooked by the temptations and how cleverly those temptations may be disguised—tricky business dealing with evil.

As I moved through the survey at End Slavery Now, I started thinking of how much stuff I have and, even more importantly, why I have as much stuff as I have. I certainly don’t need my 75 scarves or 50 pairs of earrings. So why have I accumulated them? What is the attraction? The temptation?

Whatever things we collect—clothes, electronics, books, gadgets, etc.—Lent invites to reflect on the why of our collections.

The survey James Neal invited me to take raised my awareness of the human cost in the global market. It also invited me to greater awareness of my own attachment and enslavement to things and made me wonder how free I am. Could I lose my scarves and earrings and still be ok? Could I lose all my possessions? How attached am I?

Good questions for Lent.

God of abundance

I spent several years in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, as a full-time volunteer, and for part of that time, I worked in an office downtown. My walking route to work took me past a shoe store a few blocks from my building.

Usually, I am not much of a shoe person, so the window displays offered only a passing interest.

Then one day, I noticed a pair of brown leather boots. They were ankle high, medium brown, with thick, cream-colored fleece rimming the tops. I could imagine the soft leather hugging my feet and how the fleece would keep snow out. From the first time I saw them, I loved them and knew I had to have them. I began to plot how I might make them mine.

The problem was that the boots cost nearly $200, and my monthly stipend was $50—and that had to cover my food, transportation, clothing and fun. I was living very simply, walking the three miles to work and packing a PB&J sandwich for lunch every day. Breakfast was oatmeal and dinner was usually rice and beans or homemade soup. I didn’t mind the simplicity of my life because I am frugal by nature. So why had these expensive boots caught my fancy? And why did I feel such a need for them?

Day after day I stopped by the window to stare at “my” boots.

My infatuation continued to grow as the days went on.

At my next monthly meeting with my supervisor, I told him about the boots and my compulsion to have them. Material things did not usually grab hold of me in this way, and I was honestly confused about the attraction of this particular pair of boots.

During that conversation, though, I had an “aha” moment and realized the boots had come to symbolize the things I was denying myself because of my limited income. As we talked, I came to see that I was adopting a worldview of scarcity. I explained to my supervisor how my God had always been so abundantly generous to me, and I rarely had the experience of “wanting.” But, there I was, coveting a thing.

This memory came back to me during Mass on Ash Wednesday.

Twice this week, I heard the Lenten journey compared to a space mission (pre-set time, limited activities, etc.). I wondered if astronauts use their time in space to look inward. Do they reflect on their actions and process the events of their lives to see if they need reconciliation? Do they set new goals? Do they seek a different perspective?

Preparing for Lent, I wondered if I could view Lent like a “space mission” and take a step back from life and gain a different perspective.

Perhaps the “boots” memory came back to me because it reminded me of the abundance of God. During Lent, I want to try to live out of abundance and not scarcity—faithful in prayer, fasting from negativity and generous in almsgiving.

Being open to the presence of God

Sometimes my liturgical seasons seem to get their wires crossed—I experience Lenten contrition in August or Easter joy during Advent. This year, I am resonating more with Advent than with Lent.

Advent begins with the image of the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light (Isaiah 9:2). That is what I am experiencing as Lent begins—walking in light. The darkness of the grief that has gripped me for the past six years seems to have lifted, and my spirit feels light and free. Instead of donning sackcloth and ashes, I feel like laughing and dancing.

Joy and gratitude have taken up residence; contentment reigns. For as long as this feeling lasts, I want to enjoy it.So, about Lent.

True confession: I am addicted to chocolate and rarely go a day without it.One year, just after college, my housemate and I gave up chocolate and alcohol for Lent. I thought giving up alcohol would be more difficult, but it was not. At the grocery store, I repeatedly noticed candy bars on the checkout conveyor belt. How did that happen? I would wonder, knowing full well that I must have put them there, even though I was completely unaware that I had done it. Giving up alcohol for Lent? No problem. But chocolate? No way.

I have a desk drawer at work designated as the snack drawer—it is stocked with chocolate in a variety of forms—granola bars with chocolate chips, chocolate covered almonds and straight-up chocolate candy. It is not a secret stash, and anyone is welcome to dip into this treasure trove of sweets.One Lent, a staff person said she wanted to give up chocolate and asked if I would be willing to join her. She wanted me to empty my snack drawer because she feared the temptation would be too great for her. I explained that I give things up for Lent to become holier—or at least more focused on God—and giving up chocolate would only make me grumpier.

My fasting for Lent tends to be more about giving up being judgmental or being critical or being impatient—more attitudes than actual things. Changing my attitudes seems to have more potential to be transformational in my spiritual journey than changing my eating habits.

My Lenten reflection book encourages making Lent “a penitential season,” and says the purpose of penitential practices (prayer, fasting and almsgiving) is “to open oneself more fully to the presence of God.”

This Lent, I want to fast from judgmentalism, scarcity, stinginess and fear—and feast on  abundance, joy, trust, generosity and gratitude. This Lent, I want to bask in light and live in freedom.

Getting ready for Christmas

As I have been preparing for Advent, the word “fast” keeps coming to me. I tend to associate fasting with Lent, but I cannot seem to shake this invitation to fast.

This Advent feels different from the past few; I think because I am out of the fog of grief that shrouded this season for the last three years. This year, I am looking forward to celebrating Christmas, and I want to be fully alive and alert for opportunities to give and receive.

I have been pondering the things that keep me from being fully alive and alert, the things that occupy my time and energy without profit. Probably at the top of the list is watching television.

Although I watch less television than the national average, every time I find myself watching a mindless sitcom—or even worse, a rerun of a mindless sitcom—I know I am wasting precious time, minutes and hours I cannot get back.

My awareness of the preciousness of time keeps growing. Last week, I attended the funeral of a friend who was only twenty-six years old. Justin was healthy, and I had no expectation that his time on earth was coming to an end; but he died while out for a run.

At his funeral, I was deeply aware of how well he had used his time; although he had only been in Detroit for fifteen months, the church was full. Hundreds of people had been touched by this kind, thoughtful young man, and we came together to celebrate his life and share our grief.

Justin was serious about his spiritual journey and committed to service. He loved to read and was fond of suggesting titles that had helped him make progress on his path to God. He was passionate about God and his faith, and his commitment always challenged me to review my own spiritual life and my level of passion for sharing my faith.

Even before Justin’s death, though, I had been aware of this invitation to fast. Since my move, I have felt a bit off-kilter and only slowly have I begun to feel more myself. I have started to do things that have always been important to me like baking, knitting and sewing. But my life still looks so different from how it did four years ago.

One big difference is the amount of time I spend writing. For a number of years, I ghost-wrote reflection pieces for a priest friend—my first foray into publishing. Once I started writing down my ideas, it seems my brain kicked into overdrive, with new ideas popping into my mind almost every day.

Taking the time to write down these reflections seems to be a better use of my time than watching mindless television. Fasting from sitcoms might be a good start to help me get ready for Christmas. I can spend that time in prayer, reading books on spirituality and writing. Maybe I will even knit some Christmas gifts.