Real-Life Lent

Lent.

Sweet, dear, long-awaited Lent.
Oh, it's here--loud and clear.

A few days ago, I wrote a nicely-packaged little sentiment about my Lenten goals before logging off social media for the season. It went something like this:

I'm giving up social media for the first time! I'm hoping to be back for the Alleluia chorus with:

• better time management 

• a more vibrant prayer life 

• renewed effort in nourishing one-on-one relationships 

• & better discipline in first serving the people in front of my face who need me before I dive in to connect with those on my screen.

I then came here and started this little ditty of a post to expand upon those points - so I could tell you that even though Facebook is officially meh, I knew it would still challenge me because social media has led me to some incredible community and amazing relationships, some even turning into real-life local friends. But then I was going to concede that I don't need to further entrench myself in the habit of spending an excess of time with my online communities to the detriment of those relationships and community right outside (and inside) my own door. Then I was going to tell you all about my grand plan to replace that time with prayer, my beautiful BIS Lent journal, and a daily rosary (a practice which has long been difficult for me to muster enough patience and energy to commit to).

Indeed, I was poised to paint a perfectly lovely picture of a heroically sacraficial liturgical season in which I would naturally develop great habits and become a better person, yada yada yada.

Mmm-hmmm. Well.

God didn't waste any time bringing me back down to Earth in order to put my idyllic Lent in its place with real-life Lent.

It started on Good Ol' Fat Tuesday. I wasn't feeling great, had an appointment that meant no sweets, and grumbled internally most of the day over my ruined Mardi Gras. Late that night, I came down with a bug for the second month in a row (third month in a row if we're including the whole family--but who's counting). And as such I entered Ash Wednesday--my previously-heralded arrival of the Great New Beginning--in a perfectly wretched state: sick, all alone, and zero social media with which to air my grievances, garner sympathy and support, and/or escape any bit of my current reality.

Ahem. 
Not the start I was looking for, God.

I was supposed to be out and about these first few hours of social media withdrawal, appropriately distracted by pouring myself into real people and duties.
I was supposed to go to mass, get in the spirit, and enter the season in a wonderfully penitent, motivated state of mind.
And I was certainly supposed to have a break already from the stomach stuff that God knows full well is my Public Enemy No. 1. Yes, it's a fear which I've been doing a bang-up job in working to overcome, but c'mon. Three months in a row? 

Yet indeed, here I found myself: deep in the wallows of real-life Lent; the crème de la crème of my intended sacrifices all converging on Day One with a vengence, daring me to go ahead and throw in the towel.

God. Why? Must we begin this way?

Meanwhile, with my insides still swimming and my thumb twitching for the millionth time to the spot on my phone where my social media apps used to be, I eventually landed on my email. Within moments, none other than this quote from my daily Lenten email was staring me in the face:

We are at Jesus' disposal. If he wants you to be sick in bed, if he wants you to proclaim his work in the street, if he wants you to clean the toilets all day, that's all right, everything is all right. We must say, 'I belong to you. you can do whatever you like.' And this is our strength. This is the joy of the Lord." -Mother Teresa

Funny one, God. Being a bit direct, are we?

But He clearly knew that was the plain-as-day answer I needed. Properly admonished, I quit my grumbling and got to work. I offered my suffering anew and much more genuinely, instead of begrudgingly as I had earlier. I reached for the long list of prayer intentions sitting at my bedside that I'd collected form friends near and far, so that whenever I felt the social media shakes coming on, I could fill my time praying for those people instead. I played my rosary podcast, followed by another wisdom-filled podcast and another. I craved connection, entertainment, escape, but instead embraced the isolation set aside for me to heal, and rested with sleep for my body and quiet for my soul. And finally, I reached for my beautiful journal, thinking I would just read the first day's reflections and see to the writing when I felt better.

But soon my pen was flying, and the words came forward to reveal the underlying truth of why I sought to fuel myself with social media: 

"I tend to live out loud in a way where I can always receive others' love, affirmation, approval, and direction. Though none of these are necessarily bad in and of themselves, it's damaging and counterproductive to my personal growth when I seek them before and/or in place of God's love, affirmation, approval, and direction. 
My takeaway today: Rather than trying to escape it, meet God in the isolation and the silence; lean first into His perfect love before casting wide the net that catches both imperfect human love and folly."

Boom. There it was. I understood I wasn't brought to this place of converging Hard Things simply to test my fortitude. He brought here because He knew it was the only way to get my full attention and show me where He really needs me to begin this journey. The place of my total weakness, from where He can help me grow most fully into the better person--which He calls my true self--that I originally had in mind. Indeed, the person He first had in mind when He created me.

And so, I re-commit--to opening my eyes and heart to the Lent of my life through which He implicitly speaks.

I recognize that real-life Lent is accepting that God has brought me not to the place I intended, but to the exact truth in which He needs me to rest, and then, as He takes my hand, begin.

Real-life Lent means not just idly reciting the Prayer of Abandonment to His Will that I pray every morning, but trying to humbly live it when real-life's realities hit--even if it means that the Divine Teacher walks up to me day after day, quietly shuffles my proudly-created rudimentary plans to the background, and places an eye-widening custom-made Lesson Plan in front of me.

Real-life Lent is learning to humbly receive from one of the most generous hearts I know, who reached out to me personally and invited me to walk with her and others--not just through the "repent" part of this season, but also in its truth meant to Restore--and in her wise invitation, helping me realize how much I need both right now.

And yes, sometimes real-life Lent is just that: leaning into the pain of the real, hard, messy, and unexpected of life, because that's what life presents to us in the moment. But in leaning into the hard, also leaving room to be surprised by the joy [that Mother Teresa so confidently speaks of], and leaving space for the possibility of great growth.

Sometimes a season of life deals us the worst first...and it gets easier from there.
Sometimes it's the other way around.
Sometimes we fail miserably in the thick of it,
and other times--with grace--the growth that results is immeasurable.
Sometimes the outcome is too big and divine for our narrow human minds to even imagine ahead of time.

Whatever the ultimate outcome, I'm leaning into the reality that beyond simply "giving up" a pleasure--it's stripping away the unhealthy need to seek others ahead of Him that will be my most worthy pursuit this Lent. I'm giving Him the space to patiently teach me, one slow letter at a time, how to let Perfect Love get past my head and into my heart. And I'm holding on to the promise that in wanting to want to seek him Him first in the every single mundane of everyday real life--and as real life breaks open my frivolous, distractable heart a little more--He stands happily by at my little invitation, ready to pour into the cracks--
His perfect love,
perfect comfort,
perfect direction
perfect beauty,
and the flood of joy that lasts.

We will never find our vocations by trying to figure out whether we are better or worse than others. We are good enough to do what we are called to do.  -Henri Nouwen