Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Lent

The part where the dream looks dead

Spring was just a week away. And we got slammed with a blizzard.

The days are getting longer. But the darkness feels like it’s all-encompassing.

This is the part of the story where things don’t look good for the hero. Where you hang on to the tiniest thread of hope that somehow, he’s going to come through this. But you really aren’t sure.

This is the part where the dream seems as good as dead.

Photo by Dikaseva via Splash

—

Months ago now, or maybe it’s been longer, we felt like God was nudging us to consider a move into the city. We currently live in the suburban-like developed-yet-rural area outside the city limits. And we are being pulled into the heart of the city.

We wanted to buy a house. Move this summer. Live happily ever after.

This is the part where the dream seems like it could die.

The part where the bank calls back and they sound like they wish they could do more but they just can’t offer you much in the way of a loan. And it’s not because your credit is bad (it’s near perfect) or you have sketchy job history (it’s stable in the same industry). It’s because of technicalities. Debt on your record that you currently don’t have to pay because of income requirements and weekly bonuses that don’t count because you haven’t been at your job long enough.

This is the part where you manage to end the call before you burst into tears. Where you stand in the kitchen and stir the pots on the stovetop for dinner and let the tears fall.

The part where you start listening to the voices, the mean ones in your head that tell you things you shouldn’t believe. They sound like your chiropractor, a working mom, who when you complain about the schedule changes this week because of the snow, says, “But you work from home, so it doesn’t matter, right?” She doesn’t meant it to be mean, but you hear her words as criticism. Combined with the call from the bank, you think, “Maybe I should give up this whole writing thing and get a real job. One that actually pays the bills. What kind of fool sits at home writing all day, dreaming of the day when her words will be in the world and maybe just maybe bring a little bit of money with them?” It doesn’t help that you might be on the verge of losing a project you’ve spent 18 months working on.

This is the part of the story where you were just starting to feel good about life again. Hopeful, even. And now the demons are back. The old feelings of anger, bitterness and despair are rising, and you’re questioning all the events from the past you can’t change. Why did they have to happen the way they did?

The voices also say this is the part of the story you shouldn’t tell. You should wait till there’s resolution, one way or another, because OMG, Lisa, dramatic much? You are Chicken Little and the sky is falling and you are telling everyone before you can think it through.

And yet this is the part of the story that makes the story.

Think about it: In your favorite movie or book, there’s probably a moment when the dream looks dead. The goal, unreachable.

Tara is ruined. Westley is dead. The ring is in the wrong hands. Hogwarts has fallen. (Forgive my oversimplifications.)

What would a good story be without a moment of doubt?

—

That these feelings should occur during Lent is no coincidence. Our family decided to cut out TV for this span, not because we think it will make us more holy, but because we often find ourselves turning to it as a distraction. And I’ve never wanted a distraction so much as I have this week. I want to zone out, live someone else’s life through the screen, and forget about my own problems.

But the TV isn’t an option. So I’m forced to feel. And deal.

Lent feels like a slow march to death sometimes. Even though Easter is coming, we have to go through Good Friday to get there and Good Friday is the darkest point of the story. The dream, the hope, the promise is dead. And there’s nothing anyone can do but mourn.

Until two days later, when we see that death is not where the story ends. The story ends with life. Rebirth. Resurrection.

Photo by John Silliman via Unsplash

I’ve read enough stories to know that it’s true. This part where things are all wrong and it seems devoid of hope is not the end. (But it’s still hard to believe that in the day-to-day.) The seed in the ground, buried under dirt, is not the end. It’s the beginning. The only way to life.

This is the part where the dream seems dead. It’s just a part of the story, and however long it lasts, I will try to see it as such. An end to this story is coming and I will remember this part of it.

Because what kind of story would it be without the part where all seems lost?

What I learned from Lent

I’ve never been very good at observing (celebrating? commemorating? participating in?) Lent. Discipline and I don’t really get along well, a relationship I keep meaning to reconcile, but well, life.

I’m terrible at persevering and following through and any time I’ve tried to give up something for the 40 days of Lent I either end up miserable, forgetful or failing. Ritual for the sake of ritual doesn’t interest me so there have been years where I’ve virtually ignored Lent because I just didn’t know what to do with it.

This year, we belong to a church that treats Lent differently than any other church we’ve been part of. For the weeks of Lent, we partner with a church in Chicago to reflect on, and inform ourselves about, a justice issue in our world. This year, it was about incarceration. Here’s what I wrote at the start of Lent.

And here’s what I can tell you now: I did not give my whole self to Lent. I read the devotionals sporadically. I wore a button … until I lost it. And while I was moved and angered and saddened by what I learned about the prison system in our country, it didn’t cause any action on my part.prison button

I mean, I wrote the blog post, I read a book about women coming out of prison and the struggles they face, and I signed some online petitions and sent some e-mails to congressmen whose votes can change the way things are done.

But does any of that matter?

What I learned during Lent, what I seem to always learn during Lent, is that I am selfish. And distracted. And busy with a lot of things that don’t matter.  I’m willing to do a little but maybe not a lot. I’m good at talking and writing about issues but when it comes to acting or doing, not so much. I don’t beat myself up too much because that doesn’t do any good, either, so I’m left with questions.

What can I do? What else can I do? What more can I do? And how?

Wearing the button on my jacket was a huge step for me. It meant that people would look at me a little longer than normal, that they might engage me in conversation, and I am more the kind of person who wants to walk quietly through her life and not draw anyone’s attention for good or bad.

Wearing a button marked me, in a way, as some sort of social justice freak or religious nut. At least, that’s what I would have thought about someone wearing the button if that someone wasn’t me.

In truth, I want to call attention to injustice. I want to stand up and fight for things that matter. That is my heart. But I am not brave. Or courageous. Or loud. Some days I have to gather enough courage to walk into the grocery store (and then spend the rest of the day reading books to recharge from the emotional toll being in public takes on me.) I want you to care about things that are important but I don’t want you to think bad of me for caring about them.

What I learned from Lent is that there are parts of me that still have to die and be transformed. Parts of me I still need to sacrifice to God’s redemption.

Now that it is Easter, a season of celebration and feasting, a time of rejoicing for God’s kingdom has come to earth, it is easy to forget Lent. Those things I learned, those passionate feelings I felt, I could compartmentalize them into the 40 days of Lent and move on with my happy, comfortable life.

Or.

I could revisit and reflect and pray and learn more. The end of Lent doesn’t have to be the end of caring and justice and “on earth as it is in heaven” kind of living. It shouldn’t be the end, I think, but the beginning.

Lent reminds me that life is about more than me, that Jesus’ sacrifice was not for me alone, and that His redemption is for every day not just a few days or a single season.

I still don’t know what this means or looks like on a daily basis.

All I know is I don’t want to quit caring about prisoners because Lent is over.

I’m curious, does Lent carry over into Easter and the rest of the year for you? If so, how? If not, what would it look like for that to happen?

I’m asking myself the same questions.