a nap and a snack

a reflection on lenten sundays (a mini series)

We made it!
Our first full week of Lent! We did the thing!
We are going meatless. Cutting sugar. Pushing the wine aside. Ignoring the block of cheese in the refrigerator. We rise with the sun and pray prostrate on the hardwood floors because we know we should feel uncomfortable. Because Christ died and so why can’t we put a couple of callouses on our knees and noses? Holy callouses they are! And us? Flesh and ash and oh so holy. Très holy. Except for on Thursday when we forgot to set our alarm and couldn’t find anything to eat for lunch so we ate the block of cheese (woe to us, woe to our colon), but hey! We’re not God so basically we’re crushing it! Go us, go!

And round it goes.

Now hear me. I am pro-lent. I am all about gathering the resources. Finding the devotionals, picking the fasts, knowing how and where to give, and re-learning to pray. Oof, could I ever re-learn to pray.

But I am also great at the guilt and the shame game.

If Lent goes even slightly left of orthodox, if I hear inklings of other people’s great piety, and if there is a moment of weakness in which I did not pray and decided instead to bitch, well then there goes the baby and the bathwater. Shwoop. Out the window. Lent ruined.

But this is often how my non-liturgical seasons go too. This has been my brain lately:

It’s March already?! Everyone is buying chicks, but I heard they sold out at the Farm Supply Store, so should I find some on Facebook? Is it too late? Probably. And instead of buying vegetable starts I should be growing things from seed. That’s what everyone else does (right?!). And where is that sourdough starter? Somewhere in the recesses of my refrigerator—I really should revive that sucker. And the floors will need to be cleaned before company comes over next week because they’re disgusting. When was the last time I prayed? Scout really needs to be groomed—she smells. When was the last time I prayed? Does Sam have his clothes for preschool tomorrow? When was the last time I prayed?

And on it goes again.

I know what Lent is for. I know the good, deep, holy things it can stir in us and the great mysterious love it underlines. But I am also a 21st century Western woman who cannot divorce herself from the culture I am steeped in. I hope and work to not be of it, but I am in it, and the push to achieve, even in Lent (especially in Lent?) is a chorus I hear chanted loud and clear. And when I fail? There’s grace, of course, but the discouragement, while certainly tied to pride, has now turned into more of an exhausted sadness.

I tried and failed again.
Lord, have mercy.
I wanted to seek your face and instead kept staring at my own.
Lord, have mercy.
This feels like an impossible task.
Lord, have mercy.

It feels like an impossible task, because it is.

I’m not saying avoiding the block of cheese and hitting up confession more regularly is impossible. I’m saying getting it all right is.

The task is impossible. But we keep at it.
And thankfully, built right into Lent, is the Sabbath. Every. Single. Week.

Is it any wonder that while we are waiting for Easter and the true feast to begin, we are given little Easters along the way? Maybe because 40 days in the wilderness is not for the faint of heart.

So here’s my thought: fast, and give, and pray, and keep it up because it is good, and pure, and beautiful, but for the love of all that is good and holy, on Sunday, have a nap and a snack.

there is nothing more beautiful than a sleeping child, especially my sleeping child.

of pantyhose and god’s good grace

Growing up in the Bible belt, going to church was an event. And we were always late to church. Chronically. There was no one person or reason we could lay blame on, it just was what it was and no matter how hard we tried, if all four of us were going to make it to church, it was going to be a good five to ten after the convocational hymn was sung.

Some might not find rolling up to their place of worship a little late embarrassing, but I realized as a young child that we were made to be embarrassed. The greeters were usually the same group of five or six batty elders, welcoming us with comments of:

Well here come the Nye’s! Don’t worry, we didn’t wait for ya.
Oh I think we got a few of the cheap seats in the back, or you could go waaaaay up front!
God doesn’t care that you’re late…again!

I’m of a more steely resolve now, but at the tender age of seven these comments made me realize that being ON TIME and DRESSED and READY TO SERVE THE LAWD YOUR GAWD better look a certain way. And if you have a run in your pantyhose? Lord, have mercy.

Grace was sufficient for me if I marched in lock step. Mercy came if my hair was combed and I had my memory verses ready to recite (I never did). We ran out of the house to church where our timely attendance, our bodies, and our ability to show up prepared was scrutinized. The church was a country club and we had to pay our dues or the pearly gates may not be open to us.

The hustle was real. The standards were high and we all felt it. By the time we came home again, the tension I held in my stomach had made me physically sick. I would peel off my ruffle socks, pantyhose, and crinoline lined dress and collapse, still nauseated from the rush of the morning and the lingering scent of my mother’s hairspray lingering in the air from mere hours before.

It was the Sabbath and all we had gained from this holy day was a headache and a guilt-ridden anxiety attack. And there’d be no rest for the weary because we’d go back that evening for a more casual version and then, on to the Sunday Scaries.

Go. Fight. Win. But don’t you dare rest in the goodness and grace of God.

an old picture of the cookie king. a sunday cookie is something we hooses live and die by. and this rascal bakes a mean snickerdoodle.

and now, we rest

Now, expand with me for a moment because this isn’t a Lenten resource. This isn’t even a Lenten Sunday resource. This is the guide for after you’ve failed during Lent (or succeeded and are now, perhaps, a bit too big for your britches).

Guide? Ok, not really that either. It’s just a reminder from one spicy little worm to another.

Hey, worm. You can stop your striving now.

Go to church and sink into that pew like chocolate chip on a warm windowsill.

Drink in the music swelling around you. Listen to the congregational voices. Close your eyes and pretend for hot minute that you are listening to the saints singing with you (because you are).

Go light a candle. Whisper a prayer. It’s ok if the prayer is for you.

Peel back the layers of weariness on your eyes and listen as your minister reads the words of Jesus. If he walks into the congregation and holds the gospel up in front of you, see Jesus walking through a field to look for you, little sheep.

Sing again, let your voice mesh and mingle with the saints. Let it be loud. Or not. Sotto voce. Whatever volume, it is good.

Raise your hands at the sound of the doxology. Praise God from whom all. blessings. flow.

Then, for our Lord’s sake, go home and rest.

Sink into your couch as if you were a seed being planted in the cushions. Let the afternoon sunlight dance across your face and breathe deep. Feel your ribcage. Pick up that book you’ve been ignoring. Or don’t. But make sure you are resting, and that the only thing you are balancing is a bowl of buttered popcorn on your abdomen.

Whatever rest looks like, find it. Because you aren’t being tempted by Satan in the wilderness. You were given Sundays in Lent. And to not strive? Well that’s holy too.

Because you’re not a worm. You are beloved. Fully human and finite. And to fast, give, and strive to better know Christ is good. But so is resting.

Always,
Emily

P.S. My Lenten snack of choice: crackers and pimento cheese (I omit the jalapeño and cayenne and add smoked paprika). My activity of choice: a nap so deep that, when I do wake, I have forgotten what day it is.