Lent and Imperfection

Lent creeps up on me every year. The other day, I walked into the grocery store and saw a sign for a sale on shrimp. Just in time for Mardi Gras, the sign read. ‘Huh,’ I thought. Then I checked the date and realized that, yes, it must be about that time. I can never remember anymore, not since we moved back north away from Mobile, Alabama, where Mardi Gras originated and where you can barely get through the streets of downtown in February because of all the parades. It was easy to remember back then.

The funny thing is, I barely understood what Lent was before we moved south. The version of Christianity I grew up with was anything but liturgical. Liturgy equaled rules, and rules prohibited the work of the Holy Spirit, or so my father thought. This man who years earlier got saved and joined a Presbyterian church. Who are Presbyterians if not liturgists?

My own sense of liturgy has waned over the years. For a while, I was big on it. I liked the rhythm, the rules, the predictability. I see how they have their place in spiritual life, just like they have their place in daily life. Life is filled with rhythms and seasons, times of less and times of more. But for some reason liturgy hasn’t really stuck, obviously, since I can’t remember that Lent is coming and have to be notified by a sign at the grocery store.

At breakfast this morning, my husband reminded me that today is Mardi Gras. He walked to the kitchen to make a second French press of coffee, and I got distracted by the sun coming through the back window and hitting me in the face.

“You know,” I said, “I’m really sick of this house.”

He came back to the table and said, “Yes, I know.”

I had mentioned this to him last week. The kids were off school for February break, historically the coldest and snowiest of the year, except for this year where it was in the sixties almost every day. The first day of break, he went to work and I took the kids to the beach to lavish ourselves with sunshine. It was chilly, but who can turn down the beach in February? The next day, we opened the windows, just a crack because the screens were still put away for the winter. I kept telling myself this was just a taste of spring, a peek at what’s to come, and also that it’s February and winter is not over yet.

But my mind went somewhere else – to spring cleaning and wide open windows and sunlight and change. I started thinking about rearranging the furniture and wondered if we should paint the living room again (but not white this time). Also, these red and white plaid pillow covers aren’t working anymore. And maybe we should change the curtains. All of these things just cosmetic fixes. Easy ones.

The more I looked around and thought about what projects I’d like to do around the house this spring, the more I realized we’re in over our head with this house. It needs new windows and a new kitchen; there’s no back door; our dog needs a fence.

“I wish we liked it better here,” I said to my husband, which is true. I wish I loved our neighborhood or that the house was truly amazing. But, honestly, I just feel kind meh about it. I want acreage and a house with lots of windows, maybe a wraparound porch. I want more space.

“Well, this house doesn’t work for us,” he said, and I nodded. Underneath my nodding was a lot of frustration. I’ve always believed that if you change something, something small, it can turn everything around. Sometimes it takes a gallon of paint. Sometimes it means going outside. Sometimes it’s offering a hug instead of an unkind word. But this house is a beast unto itself, filled with more large-scale problems than we’ll ever be able to solve.

We’ve lived here for about a year-and-a-half. It doesn’t seem like very long, except when I think back to this time last year, in a panic to decide what to give up for Lent, I resolved to stop looking at my phone first thing in the morning, promising myself that I wouldn’t look at it until I had a hot cup of coffee in hand, at least fifteen minutes after getting out of bed. At this time last year, my husband was working two jobs and going to nursing school full time. Our marriage and our life was in worse shape than we knew. I felt frantic all the time. Not checking my phone first thing in the morning didn’t fix that.

“I just don’t want to be the kind of people who don’t do anything,” I said, rubbing my thumb along the edge of my mug. “I don’t want to live in a house we can’t fix, and I don’t want to look around and see a bunch of projects we can never complete.”

My husband got up to pour the boiling water into the French press. “Then, we’ll focus on what we can do,” he said. Which is exactly what we’ve been doing for the last nine months, since we found out he failed his coursework and he decided not to go back to school. We’ve been doing what we can to try to get back on track, to love and forgive and keep sticking together, which is oversimplifying it. It’s been much harder than that. We’re still figuring it out.

And the house, of course, is just a metaphor. Lent, of course, is just a season. Except that it’s not. It’s a chance to let go of the things we’re carrying, to give them to the God who promises to carry us:

“The season of Lent says to God’s people: ‘Bring it.’ Bring your dry bones, your numb hearts, and your wrecked and weary souls. Bring your shame and the sin that you can’t shake. Yes, it is too much for you, but it is not too much for God. Only He can create a clean heart and a renewed spirit within you.”

When I read this essay this weekend, I didn’t realize I’d refer to it again and again over the next few days. I didn’t know I’d roll these words over in my mind. I didn’t see how desperate I am for rest. Not rules, but rest.

“I’ve been thinking about Lent,” I told my husband. He poked his head around the cabinet. “I want more space. I want to create space – in our home, in our lives. I’m tired of all of it. Let’s get rid of stuff; let’s make room for something else.” He sat down and we poured ourselves more coffee.

“Okay,” he said. “We can do that.”

Then I remembered a time in college when I visited a friend’s church. Her father was the pastor and during children’s part of service, he talked about 2 Corinithians 5:17: Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. He was wearing a cardigan, which he said was like the old way. When we come to Christ, he said, we put off the old. Then, he took off the cardigan. It can be scary and we feel naked, so we have to put something else on. What we put on, he said, is the character of Christ.

As I think about creating space and how that could be my Lenten practice, I think about that cardigan. I think about how uncomfortable I feel when I log out of my social media accounts and go back for a quick hit. I think about how uncomfortable it is when I don’t have a good book to read or a friend to talk to or a television show to entertain me. I think about what I could pare down or put down or let go in order to create that uncomfortable space that might bring me closer to God.

Because once we let go of something, something else takes its place, and why shouldn’t that point us back toward God, away from ourselves and our problematic houses and our fragile marriages? Why shouldn’t that drive us into the arms of the only one who can save us, who insists we do nothing but show up and let go?