This is Lent

I’m the one who does our devotional planning for holidays. Christopher leads the day-to-day spiritual formation, but when it comes to holidays (Easter, Christmas, etc.), I’m the one putting together the readings and plans. Because frankly, I enjoy it– and also, I’m the half of the couple who looks ahead far enough to say, “Advent starts in three weeks. What should we focus on as a family this season?”

Which explains why I have spent the past two weeks rolling Lent around in my mind.

See, we’re what you’d probably call fairly typical evangelical Protestants … who happen to find great joy, meaning, and spiritual growth in focusing on the times of preparation leading up to major church celebrations. We celebrate Advent in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Instead of counting down the nights until Santa slips down the chimney, we count down the days until Christ is born. It’s a subtle shift, but one that throws the materialistic furor of the holiday onto its head. It keeps our focus where it needs to be — on Jesus — and helps us to remember why we bother to celebrate at all.

Easter isn’t until April 20, but the lead-up begins tomorrow, March 5. Prior to celebrating the miracle of the resurrection, we focus on the reason why the crucifixion was necessary at all, on the mystery and the majesty of Christ here on earth, and on the sacrifice that paid our debt. We don’t celebrate because we believe in any way that we can become worthy of the gift of salvation. We don’t celebrate because it’s a Biblical command. We focus on Lent because Easter represents the glorious peak of our faith; the moment that “It is finished” set us free. To not pause to meditate on the death and resurrection of Christ seems, to me, to miss the point entirely.

And so, weeks before Lent actually begins, I start praying and planning, looking for ways to steep my family in the faith and lead their hearts into a deeper understanding of what it’s all about. This year, I was so ahead of the curve. I got it. I planned the activities, noted the readings, put holds on library books. With that part over, I have been able to turn to my own heart.

Last year, Easter felt like a season of echoing loss after the death of my grandfather, so this year, as the clouds have parted, I have felt ready to rejoice again. I have felt ready to look at that pivotal moment and feel the need for it, feel grateful for the pain and suffering and the selfless love. I have been able to look upon the cross and see it not just as a bridge that will some day reunite me with the ones I have lost on this side of heaven, but as a path that will bring me, finally, into the presence of the Lord. Still, with all the preparation, it is easy to be caught off guard by the enormity of Easter.

 

Last night, I awoke in the small hours with the unrest of a mother whose body is acutely in tune with her child’s. Next to me, my sleeping toddler’s forehead was unnaturally hot, his breathing labored. If you’re a parent, you know what followed: a restless, anxious night where every possible illness from the common cold to meningitis was considered. At one point, long after my husband had prayed over Simon and fallen back to sleep, I found myself conversing with God, parent to parent.

“How did you stand it? How could you not just watch it happen, but even bear to see Him born, knowing this was coming? How much did it hurt you to witness it? How was anything worth that?”

Holding my sick baby, I would have given anything for his health and comfort — even knowing that in all likelihood, in a few days this would be a faint memory. How could the all-powerful creator of the world tolerate watching His son suffer torture and death? How is it that I am up all night, praying, hands trying to comfort, at the first sign of a fever, and yet God can look at His beloved Son and say, “Yes. This is my will”? How is it that I — that you-– are worth this?

And this is why we celebrate Lent. To give our minds space to ponder such things. To give our hearts time to absorb the depths of the truths behind them. To stop, and to finally see the fullness of what was given freely in our stead. This is the power of a time spent looking on the cross and pondering the path that led to it, as well as the doors opened because of it. The sacrifices. The plan, centuries in the making. The gift.

This is Lent.

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