Lent Devotional

by Adam Bogucki

An interesting article came across my Facebook page today. It was called “Doing Christianity vs. Being Christian.” In the article, the author, John Shore, writes about how sometimes we try so hard DO-ing that we forget to just BE. He touches on how we have made life so complicated trying to do too much. He ends with a thought: “Don’t ever sacrifice the peaceful simplicity of being Christian for the complicated busyness of doing Christianity.” Could that be any more appropriate for the end of Lent? How difficult have our lives become because we have spent the last 40-ish days worrying about what we are giving up? I’ve spent a lot of time in the past month explaining to people why I’ve given up alcohol and caffeine. And I’ve come to realize that I have put so much thought and energy into “giving up” that I have lost the focus on the reason why.

In the same way, I think we often make ourselves so busy doing the right thing, signing up for every committee, volunteering for every need, showing up at all the “appropriate” times, that we get jaded and start to do these things grudgingly. There is a song by Matthew West called “The Motions” that I listen to often when I get bogged down by too much doing. The song basically says, I don’t want to spend my whole life just going through the motions. It makes me stop and think, “Why am I doing this? What is the importance behind it?” I love all of the time that I spend with my friends at Holy Covenant. And I love all of my volunteering here and everywhere else that I volunteer. But I do think it is important to take a step back every once in awhile to really think about the motives behind all of this “do-ing.”

As Lent comes to an end, and we celebrate together on Easter, I think it is the perfect time for that stepping back. I think it is the perfect time to remember that Jesus died on the cross for us, and all we have to do is Love. Love him, love our neighbors, love ourselves. I think it is an appropriate time to live out our mission statement: Seek God, Love all people, Change the world. Happy Easter!

by Georgette Kelly

As we begin Holy Week and prepare to leave Lent, I am pre-occupied with change.

Blogging through Lent has been a very tangible form of devotion for me. It has channeled my energy and thoughts into active reflection. I am so grateful for the opportunity, and would like to say thank you to everyone who has read my posts and talked to me about them. It has been such a gift to continue reflecting through conversation with you. In some ways I am sad now, to know that the season is changing, and that I will stop blogging with Holy Covenant. In other ways, it is a relief to know that I have one less writing assignment on my plate. The change is bittersweet.

I am also looking ahead to a change in my commitment to church in general: next week, on Easter Sunday, I will be joining Holy Covenant. I have been involved in the church for almost two years, and joining now does truly feel like a joyful homecoming. I am thrilled to affirm my relationship with the church through membership vows, but I anticipate that this change will be very emotionally challenging. I have never officially joined a church on my own—I am still technically a member of my parents’ church. In some ways, I am sad to sever that tie and to strike out on my own. I am also saddened to remember the years where I did not feel comfortable in church at all. This change too, is bittersweet.

In other areas of my life—my work, my relationships, my art—change seems to be my constant. I know this is true for many of us at Holy Covenant. We are all discerning, seeking, wondering what is next.

So, in my Sabbath quest to cope with all the changes, I have been taking baths.

I started Lent on Ash Wednesday with a bath. I book-ended it with another bath on Palm Sunday. I indulged in a number of them in between. I haven’t taken so many baths since I was a child—normally I shower quickly, functionally. These baths have served as a kind of Sabbath for me. They have allowed me to slow down and recharge. They have pushed me to steep in my indecision, my yearning, my discerning. I soak and pray and think and wonder, until my fingers turn into raisins. And I usually emerge with some clarity, even if there are no answers.

These baths have gotten me thinking about the Jewish tradition of mikvehs. A mikveh is a ritual bath for the purpose of purification or a new beginning. In other words, a baptism.

Last year, my dear friend Rebecca Kling (www.rebeccakling.com) participated in a mikveh in Lake Michigan as a part of her solo performance piece titled “Uncovering the Mirrors.” The piece dealt with her experience with Judaism as a transgender woman. The text surrounding her mikveh focused on a new beginning with her gender. The ritual of immersion in the lake was a tangible way to be washed clean of the past. It celebrated the difficulty of her journey and the joy of the changes in her life. It was deeply moving.

As I move closer to joining Holy Covenant, I have been thinking about my baptism. Because it happened when I was a baby, I often take it for granted. At times in my life, it has felt like an empty ritual. But recently, surrounded by the community at Holy Covenant, it has felt like an enormous gift.

Now, when I remember my baptism, I think of it as a fresh start, an acceptance of change, and a reassurance that God sees me as my best self. It is a covenant—a promise of life.

My Sabbath baths have been an echo of my baptism. In the context of Lent, they have been a cleansing ritual—I soak, I pray, and I am changed.

by Dan Hart

This lent I decided to take on multiple things, but the thing that I had not planned to take on was Sabbath. I think there are some times in your life when it no longer is a choice. Almost two weeks ago, Autumn and I had our car totaled in the middle of the night. We felt stuck and unsure of the next move. After a frenzied day of calling the police, the towing company, our families, and some of our friends, we were left to just sit and ponder. At some point late in that day when we had tried to call everybody we could and were exhausted we both just sat back on the couch, looked at each other and realized I guess we should just take a moment to pause. We shared the afternoon just trying to calm down a bit and took the time to cook and share dinner together with an episode of West Wing. Life came to a screeching halt.

Since that time we have been remembering what it is like to not always have the fastest transportation. This has been a stressful proposition for a person like me who is normally late to things anyway. Now I am relying on slower transportation and biking and walking. My own privilege of time and transportation dangles on my heart. I try to justify this feeling of annoyance while realizing many people, especially in the city, go everyday without a car. They would not even bat an eye at some of the things that are stressing me out.

Although the stress is real, I am realizing some of the ways in which this has been a strangely beneficial experience as well. Autumn and I have enjoyed more time walking than we have in a long time. We got to spend Autumn’s birthday biking into downtown Evanston and catching dinner and a movie (no money to park!) and being outside on that beautiful day. We are spending more time outside as the weather flirts with warmth.

It is also through times of struggle that you learn who is there to affirm you. Autumn has received a ride to work almost every morning and we have gotten to walk to the Metra together another morning. I was kindly given a ride home (the drivers going significantly out of their way) at the end of a long day, alleviating my stress from thinking of the long train ride home. We have had friends and family calling us frequently to check in on us and give us care and advice. I feel very lifted up and cared for.

Although losing our car challenges me, it has given me an opportunity to get out and walk more, talk more with my friends and family, take impromptu breaks, and realize the way a community can care for me. Each night and morning I have been able to pray joyfully for the abundance of support I have received. Also, I see the way I take advantage of my abundance. This causes me to raise questions that I fail to encounter in my daily thought. What am I blessed by that I forget to think of day to day? Do I remember the gift of loving friends? Do I celebrate the gift of food, water, and shelter each day? Do I remember to be thankful for a church community that loves me? Do I think about these abundances as something that I am privileged to have? All of these things are what helps to sustain me, yet they are things that others may not have accessibility too. What is it in your life that you are thankful for?

By Mary Colleran

This Lent has involved a lot of quiet reflection time for me, so I’ll just share some of what I reflected on this week.

I really loved Dan Hart’s sermon at the evening service on Sunday. Dan talked about the need to weep for those who suffer. What Dan said was much more eloquent and powerful and comprehensive than that, but that was one bit of many that really struck me.

I’m kind of a sap so it’s not rare that I’ll shed tears over a situation- happy or sad. Commercials get me. Pretty much every episode of “Intervention” gets me. I was recently walking behind two old men walking arm and arm and that totally got me. “It Gets Better” videos? Forget it- I’m a mess. Dan’s sermon reminded me of a moment from a few years ago that I hadn’t thought about it a while. A moment that REALLY got me.

A few years some friends and I volunteered at an orphanage in Siem Reap, Cambodia. Our main job was teaching English classes. We were only at the orphanage for two weeks but in that time I grew very attached to some of the kids. I could go on and on but the short story is that the poverty was like nothing I’d ever witnessed. 67 kids all slept in one small room. There were a few times were kids told me they were hungry. It was hard to know how sustainable the orphanage was, and where these kids would wind up. One boy in particular, So Set, who was about 9, really got to me. None of the children understood much English at all, but So Set was very smart and eager to learn. He happily taught us songs and clapping games and dances and obviously loved having us there.

The day before we left Cambodia, we said goodbye to all the kids at the orphanage. It was as sad as I imagined it would be. I shed some tears but tried to keep it together. That night, I was in my little room, in the house where we stayed. Torrential rain slammed on the tin roof. I got in my bed, pulled out my journal, and went to write about the last few days events. As I thought about the kids at the orphanage and my experiences in Cambodia, I started to cry. Then I started to bawl. It was the ugly cry reserved for special occasions. I couldn’t stop. I was filled with overwhelming despair. Stories of the Khmer Rouge. Landmine victims. The experiences of kids at the orphanage. It all hit me at once. I wrote this in my journal:

Saying goodbye to So Set broke my heart. He is so special. I pray that he will be okay. He’s so smart and artistic and kind and full of life. I’m bawling as I write this. I just picture that smile and giggle of his and hope that he will be okay. I honestly had so much fun playing games with him every day- all those clapping games and dances we’d make up. It’s crazy to think/feel this way after 2 weeks- but I thought- I could adopt him and love him unconditionally forever. I couldn’t stop hugging him. Seeing that sweet face so sad killed me. It’s so hard because I have no idea if he’ll be okay. He said something to Sobean in Khmer and Sobean said, “So Set would like me to tell you that he will never forget you and that he loves you.” I hugged him and we both cried and said things the other didn’t understand. I wish he understood me. I told him that he’s a beautiful boy and that I’m proud of him. He’s smart and kind and good and that he makes me happy and that I will always pray that he’ll be okay.

So Set is one beautiful child of many beautiful children who deserve so much more than what they have. Thinking about it is making me cry right now. I’m grateful for the tears. They make me feel connected. They make me feel human. They make me feel like doing whatever I can to work for social justice so that no one has to know hunger and homelessness and injustice. I am so blessed to have met So Set and learn some of his story and experience his giggles. All of it inspired me and continues to inspire me. The feelings of despair that led to the tears are what make me want to act.

The first time I came to Holy Covenant and the mission was read (“Seek God. Love all people. Change the world.”), I knew I’d be coming back. Truly loving all people in this beautiful and broken world is going to lead to the ugly cry now and then. The tears make me feel inspired to change the world.

by Georgette Kelly

This week, I had a Sunday Sabbath written into my calendar. I had my day all mapped out in my head. And then, on Saturday night, I found out I needed to work on Sunday. It was unavoidable and un-delegateable.

My reaction was very intense. I indulged in what would be best described as a fit of pique: I cried. I pouted. I felt very sorry for myself. I listened to Rusted Root’s cover of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” on repeat while I ate ice cream.

More seriously, I was sad and angry; I felt as though one of my rights had been taken away from me. I felt as if all my efforts to maintain a healthy and sustainable life had been thwarted. The stakes were very high—I felt like I had failed Lent.

To me, “failing Lent” does not feel like failing God. It feels more like failing myself—which is worse. If I make mistakes, God will forgive me. But how will I forgive myself? This question haunts me.

I have been trying so hard to take care of myself, and fighting my tendencies towards self-deprivation and self-harm through overwork and anxiety. And after a few weeks of practice, I felt like I had actually gotten somewhere. I felt like maybe, just maybe, the pattern of self-care would stick. But in giving up my day off this week, I felt like all of that progress had been in vain.

So I worked for most of Sunday, and did my best not to be Grumpy with a capital G.

And then I left work. I went outside—it was 83 degrees and sunny. A friend had called to invite me for a walk on the beach. I changed into a sundress and felt the sand between my toes. And I realized that maybe God had a bigger lesson in mind for me.

Although I had gone to work on my Sabbath, the spirit of Sabbath still found me. In fact, it flexed to fit my schedule. It was portable, and I could bring it along with me wherever life took me. God was teaching me that Sabbath is flexible. By extension, I can be flexible. If I try, I can alter my idea of failure.

In those fleeting blessed moments when I manage to accept that I am not perfect, I am able to realize that I can’t fail myself. Even when I “fail,” I still wake up with myself and need to look in the mirror. I can still choose to love myself, even after I revert to old unhealthy patterns. I can choose radical acceptance of my imperfection, the way God does. I can be flexible, like God is.

With this in mind, I went to the 7 o’clock service at Holy Covenant and lit a candle for my portable Sabbath. In talking with Dan Hart after the service, I explained the grumpiness with which my day had begun. I told him, tongue-in-cheek, that I had failed Lent. And he said, very simply:

“You can’t fail Lent.”

by Mary Colleran

“Practice knowing what you believe to be true.”

Our gal Rebecca uttered these wise words during service this weekend. That one really got me. I practiced understanding what that statement even means. Ahh….meta overload in my brain!

There’s been more than the average amount of death in my life lately. Family and friends of friends and parents of friends. Death is a topic that’s been fresh on my mind anyway but then it kept cropping up in different ways. Seems like the season of Lent is the perfect time to really dig in to this topic and practice knowing what I believe to be true. But when it comes to death, what do I believe to be true?

In my recent focus on this topic, I was thinking about how we sometimes get callous about death. “Oh wow…that’s sad! Sorry to hear it!” Facebook has made me notice this more. A quick expression of sympathy on a Facebook wall and our sympathetic duty is complete. Something about it really grosses me out. It’s not like I can work up a lot of emotion for every person that passes away and it really wouldn’t make sense for me to have that kind of reaction. But…every person, whether I really care about them or not, was a person. Like me. With one shot at life. And that shot is done. At least this earthly one. And whatever choices they made in life were the ones they thought were right at the time. The ones they made on a dime and the ones that kept them up nights. And now…it’s all done.

I worked with elderly for many years and was around many people who were at the end of their lives. I felt so grateful to be able to experience that time of their lives with the elderly with whom I worked. Some were very ready for death. One woman who was 103 would end visits with, “Thanks for coming! I hope I never see you again!” She was happy and ready to move on to whatever was next. There was one woman who I visited on occasion, who I’ll call Louise.. I’d go to her tiny apartment to highlight her TV Guide for her so she knew when her shows were on, help her pay bills and make sure her cat had what it needed. One day, out of nowhere, Louise asked, “Mary…ya ever wonder what happens after you die?”

Me: Oh yeah. I’ve wondered that a lot. How about you?

Louise: Yeah. I’ll go before you so I’ll try to give you a sign and let you know.

Me: That would be great. Can we work out some logistics on how that’s going to happen? Don’t scare the crap out of me. I don’t need you haunting me.

Louise: Okay. I’ll try to let you know I’m there but not hover over your bed or anything.

My Mom volunteered with Hospice for many years and her experiences were inspiring to me. My parents, who are in their 80s, have given me what is a great gift. They’ve taken the time and energy to sit down and talk to me, very honestly, about what they want when it comes to their deaths and what exactly my brothers and I will need to do when they die. The conversations were not fun. At all. For any of us. But it brings me peace to know what they want. A few years ago two of my brothers came to Chicago for Thanksgiving. The three of us went for a walk at the lake and somehow got to talking about what we think will happen when our parents die. The general consensus was: It’s gonna really suck. It was a chilly and cloudy day and I remember feeling such a mix of emotions. I was overwhelmingly sad to think about impermanence and how we’re all just here for what, in the grand scheme of things, is such a short time. On the other hand, I was so happy to have my brothers who would talk openly about an important topic that often gets ignored, and I was happy to have parents that are so amazing that the mere thought of them not in my life makes me grieve for the grieving that I will presumably one day do.

I completed a training with Hospice a few years ago but then my life got busy and I wasn’t able to be matched with anyone. The training itself was incredible. We had an assignment one week to write about how we wanted to spend the last days of our lives. That thought had never before occurred to me. It’s one of, if not THE most, important experiences I’ll ever have, and I had never thought about how I’d want it to go. I actually had fun writing out the details of the smells and sounds and people that I would want to be a part of my final days.

Last weekend I was out with a group of friends. One minute I was chatting with an old friend and a newer one about tater tots. I transitioned to another conversation for a minute, and then went back to what I thought was still the tater tot discussion. Then my friend said, “Oh we’re talking about death now.” And wouldn’t ya know it- in a crowded loud bar, we continued to stuff our faces with tater tots, and talk about what we think happens when we die.

I got an email asking if I’d like to sing at the evening service this weekend. I’m available, singing is fun…sure! Then I read the lyrics to the first song we’ll be singing. It starts with:

And am I born to die?
And lay this body down?
And as my trembling spirits fly
Into a world unknown

Here we go again with the death.

This brings me back to the original question. What do I believe to be true when it comes to death? I know that thinking about death makes me think about life. I don’t know what comes after, but I know that the experience of death is beautiful. For many people death may not seem remotely like anything close to beautiful. It may be a horrible accident, or a disease, or a lethal injection from the state. But the process by which everything we did in this life and every person we let into our heart and every episode of The Brady Bunch we watched and every Hazelnut skinny half caf latte we drank and every friend and child and parent and sibling and teacher and coworker and spouse we had….it’s part of us in that moment. And the next moment is a mystery to me. I know that no matter what I EVER know in this life, that next moment will still be a mystery to me. I know that thinking about that mystery helps me to try to live better. The mystery of faith. The mystery of death. All of it helps me wrap my head and heart around the reality of life.

I believe this to be true.

Now I just have to practice knowing it.

by Adam Bogucki

What a whirlwind Lent has been. I am trying so many things this year to really try and become closer with God. I gave up all of the mood altering substances (alcohol, caffeine, nicotine). I took on compassion. I am trying to pray more. I am trying, trying, trying.

So, I heard about Rob Bell’s new book “Love Wins.” I had to pick it up. I think the concept is so interesting. What DO we believe about heaven and hell? But, that isn’t what this blog is about.

During the first chapter, in which Bell is trying to describe what heaven really is and how you can get there, he tells the parable of the rich man from Luke 18.

Once a religious leader asked Jesus this question: “Good Teacher, what should I do to inherit eternal life?”

“Why do you call me good?” Jesus asked him. “Only God is truly good. But to answer your question, you know the commandments: ‘You must not commit adultery. You must not murder. You must not steal. You must not testify falsely. Honor your father and mother.’”

The man replied, “I’ve obeyed all these commandments since I was young.”

When Jesus heard his answer, he said, “There is still one thing you haven’t done. Sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

But when the man heard this he became very sad, for he was very rich.

When Jesus saw this, he said, “How hard it is for the rich to enter the Kingdom of God! In fact, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God!”

Those who heard this said, “Then who in the world can be saved?”

He replied, “What is impossible for people is possible with God.”

Peter said, “We’ve left our homes to follow you.”

“Yes,” Jesus replied, “and I assure you that everyone who has given up house or wife or brothers or parents or children, for the sake of the Kingdom of God, will be repaid many times over in this life, and will have eternal life in the world to come.”

I don’t think I ever really gave much thought to this passage before reading it again in Bell’s book. Bell points out that if we think of this story in terms of the ten commandments, he mentions only five. The first four of the ten commandments deal with one’s relationship with God. Jesus then mentions five of the remaining. The unmentioned commandment is about coveting, or wanting what others have. Being greedy. Not being satisfied with what we have. I don’t know if this happened for you like it did for me, but a huge light bulb went on over my head. Or maybe it was a spotlight.

I think the reason I have always skipped over this story is because of the guilt it inspires. Bell says in his book that the rich man walked away very sad when Jesus told him to follow the ONE commandment he wasn’t following and he would have “eternal life.” How do you do that? How do you, in this day and age of consumerism, truly be happy with what you have? I wish I could say that I was noble and just and therefore content with what I have. But, anyone who knows me can tell you that I go shopping way too much and enjoy new clothes more than just about anything.

I think what we should learn from this lesson is to spend a little less time thinking about what everyone else has or what we don’t have, and start caring just a little bit more about what others DON’T have. Isn’t that what compassion is all about? Caring for others? Caring about others?

Now, I am not going to go as far as Jesus does and tell you to sell all of your possessions and give it all away. But, I am going to challenge you for the rest of Lent to really think about what other’s need. Instead of what we can do for ourselves, let’s think about what we can do for someone else!

by Georgette Kelly

When I was a child, I sang in my church choir. From time to time, I even had a solo. These solos stand out in my memory as moments of grace, when I was seen for my potential and given a chance to shine. Because of the large impact they had on my young self, I still remember the songs. I can sing most of them without looking up the words. The lyrics are part of my childhood, and part of my life in faith. I am drawn to the traditional hymns we sang, even when they don’t fit my modern sensibilities about religion and gender.

In thinking about Lent this year, I have been meditating on one hymn in particular:

Now quit your care and anxious fear and worry;
for schemes are vain and fretting brings no gain.
Lent calls to prayer, to trust and dedication;
God brings new beauty nigh;
reply, reply, reply with love to love most high;
reply, reply, reply with love to love most high.

To bow the head in sackcloth and in ashes,
or rend the soul, such grief is not Lent’s goal;
but to be led to where God’s glory flashes,
God’s beauty to come near.
Make clear, make clear, make clear where truth and light appear;
Make clear, make clear, make clear where truth and light appear.

For righteousness and peace will show their faces
to those who feed the hungry in their need,
and wrongs redress, who build the old waste places,
and in the darkness shine.
Divine, divine, divine it is when all combine!
Divine, divine, divine it is when all combine!

(Words: Percy dearmer 20thC; Music: Quittez, Pasteurs, French carol; harm. Martin Fallas Shaw 20thC; Sequence: Cathouse Pandemonium, Ltd)

This hymn has had particular significance for me as I practice Sabbath. In my day-to-day life, I am consumed by care and anxious fear and worry. I scheme. I fret. I bow my head and I rend my soul. These lyrics are drawn directly from my experience. But as I take time to examine the role of anxiety in my life, I find the other half of this song calling to me. I am craving the love most high, the truth and light.

This week, on the Sabbath, I gave myself permission not to be anxious. I slept in. I took a long walk by the lake and watched dogs playing on the beach. I felt the sun on my skin. I had a long talk with a good friend. I watched a movie.

All of these activities were pleasurable. Without my intentional practice of Sabbath, I might have scolded myself for allowing the day to pass with no productivity. But instead, I found that I was intentionally engaging with my own pleasure. I did not have to feel guilty about it. I was able to quit my care and anxious fear and worry. At the end of the day, I felt that I had reconnected with myself and let go of the pressure that so often plagues me. As a result, I was open to the new beauty that God brought near to me.

I believe that God wants me to be happy. But too often, I get in the way of that happiness. I count the ways I have fallen short of perfection, instead of embracing the fact that I am still loved.

I know that I am called to work hard. It is in my nature to strive for perfection. Work ethic is part of my personality, my value system, even my Protestant upbringing. I embrace and cultivate my work ethic because I believe it is a talent given by God.

However, this Lent I am remembering that I am also called to take moments of rest and pleasure in the world around me. These moments of pleasure draw me nearer to where God’s glory flashes.

by Maria Cupp

I’ve been thinking a lot about Lent and about what I was going to write for this blog entry quite a bit over the past two days and honestly, I wasn’t coming up with much. I’ve been busy and preoccupied and my post was due tomorrow and then it was due today and then, well, then it was late. What could I talk about? What did I have to say? And then Kate’s sermon yesterday touched a chord…

Lent is hard.

Our current place in the Lenten season can be especially difficult. We are smack dab in the middle of Lent. The excitement of giving something up, of undergoing a spiritual challenge is waning. The cheers of our supporters have quieted and all we see ahead of us is unending pavement. We know there will peaks and there will be valleys. We see three long weeks stretching out in front of us until we make it to Easter, and if we’re honest with ourselves, we wonder why we didn’t give ourselves a break and chose something a bit easier for Lent this year. “Why did I think I needed to give up TWO things, one would surely have been enough?” “What was I thinking giving up alcohol when St. Patrick’s Day and Opening Day fall during Lent?” “Who in their right mind gives up coffee or chocolate during tax season?!”

Lent is hard.

My grandmother is dying. She has lung cancer and the end is drawing near. The first thing on my mind is God and the last thing on my mind is Lent. I think a lot about the plans God has for my gram; what lies beyond this earthly world for her. I know that my grandfather is waiting for her and they will be reunited again. I hope the dogs and cats that have passed before her will be there as well. I pray to God to give her peace and strength and to let her know its ok to move on. I find comfort in God’s presence by her side and the faith she and I both have in Him.

But Lent? Right now Lent just feels like another thorn in my side as I try to make it through each day; balancing two jobs, social commitments, involvement in church and the emotions that accompany the illness of a loved one. I’m tired and crave the temporary happiness hot French fries will provide. I’m overwhelmed, saddened and worn down by lack of sleep so I let a small judgment of someone slide by. “I can’t believe he asked that question. We’ve already answered it twice. “I justify the behavior thinking “But my life is so hard right now. I’m doing the best I can. God knows that. He understands” I imagine I get an “A” for effort and extra points for continuing to pass up the fried foods since I’m an emotional eater, never mind the face that I replace them with sweets, instead.

My grandma is sick and I think about God but try to forget about Lent. I want His comfort but I don’t want to commit to Him they way that Jesus committed to us. I don’t want to sacrifice or to struggle, especially as my own life challenges me.

Lent is hard.

Lent is supposed to be hard. Lent is about suffering and sacrifice. But it’s ok to have to remind ourselves day after day why we are doing this. It’s ok to count the days until it’s over. God understands that we aren’t perfect but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t still fight the good fight and try to stay strong and stick to our commitments. Maybe we find ourselves drinking too much pop to make up for the lack of coffee. Maybe we snap at innocent coworkers because we miss our afternoon chocolate fix. Maybe we’re not bringing our lunch to work as usual because instead of getting up early enough to meditate AND make lunch, there is only time for one. It’s not ideal. It’s not perfect. But we’re doing what it takes to put one foot in front of the other until we make it to Easter.

It’s ok. Lent is hard.

by Teddy Jay

This week provided a number of challenges for me and my Lenten disciplines. At work we’re preparing for several upcoming audits, so I’ve put in a few extra hours at the office. My church life has been a bit more demanding with the ongoing pastoral transition at Holy Covenant calling me to a few more meetings. Not to mention, I have a piano recital coming up that I’m not at all prepared for. On top of all of that, I’m trying to find some “me time,” which has been incredibly difficult.

Wednesday morning I went for a 5 mile run pretty early in the morning. Somewhere near the beginning of my run I realized I hadn’t sat down to pray, meditate or even think about God in days. While I’m sure God understands and also hears the prayers on my heart, I was a little disappointed in myself. Running is often my outlet for stress and a way for me to feel a bit more whole. I often think of it as a time by myself where I can completely let go and focus on my wellness. It’s my time. These thoughts I’m writing now were also the ones I was having in my head during that Wednesday morning run. So as I approached my next mile I thought, well this is sort of a discipline isn’t it? Perhaps I should let God in on this one as well! So I did.

I continued my run and instead of worrying about what was next on my playlist, I started having an internal dialogue with God. It made me realize how often overcomplicated we make things. Prayer comes in so many forms and God is always ready for the conversation. I always get the feeling that God speaks when we need it but enjoys it when we initiate the conversation. Prayer doesn’t have to be in a certain place, at a certain time or even with a specific objective in mind. When I think about it as a time for me to let God into my life, it seems a bit easier. When I was done with my run I walked off the trail and sat down at the lake to do my post-run stretches. I kept praying and talking to God. I gave myself a space to lift prayers up, ask questions and search my own heart for answers. As I walked a way from the lake, it became painfully aware of how much I need that space.

So it seems I have a new running partner. One who is more of an endurance runner than I’ll ever be. One who will guide my feet, hold my hand, stand by me and search my heart while I run this race. Thanks be.