A Messier Lent Than Expected
Last month I wrote about my hopes for this Lent: that it would be a messy and transformational season that showed me more of my woundedness so I could receive more healing and grow more into my true self. Little did I know how “messy” this Lent would be. In pondering what to write about this month, it seemed obvious that I should write about the pandemic that’s changed everything so drastically over the last few weeks, but what can I say that so many others wiser and more eloquent than I am haven’t already said? I can’t speak about what I don’t know, and really all I know is my own heart and life, though even those I’m aware I don’t know fully. I don’t have answers for the deep questions this crisis is sparking. The approach I take to my writing in general is to take the pulse of my own spiritual life in the hope that others will be able to relate and it will mean something to them somehow, so what I will do is write about what I’m clinging to for peace and comfort during this odd Lent with its closed churches, its global fear and chaos, its forced stillness for much of the world, and its trajectory towards what is likely to be a Pascha without the ability to physically be together.
One thing that is comforting to me is that this Lent can still be transformational and full of healing and growth, even though it won’t look like what I thought it would. One of the most beloved and deeply convicting prayers prayed by the Church during Lent is the prayer of St. Ephraim:
“O Lord and Master of my life, take from me the spirit of sloth, despair, lust of power, and idle talk. But give rather the spirit of chastity, humility, patience, and love to Thy servant. Yea, O Lord and King, grant me to see my own transgressions and not to judge my brother, for blessed art Thou unto ages of ages. Amen.”
It’s a gift to be able to see your own sin, and this unique moment has certainly shown me more of mine. It’s been so easy to make snap judgments about others during this time instead of looking inward and examining my own heart. It feels natural now to slip into laziness, despair, and idle talk. Chastity, humility, patience, and love are so needed by my spirit these days.
One thing I’ve been working through is feeling guilty for being grateful for certain aspects of life right now. Quiet days and nights at home with my husband and cat are so restorative to me, and I rarely mind a social event being canceled. I know though that there are others who feel nourished by their social time and feel starved right now and others for whom this is far from a quieter season for. I’m in a happy marriage with a very loving partner who’s my best friend, but I know many others are stuck in houses with abusers or live alone and are isolated. I know my basic needs will be met somehow, but I know many people have lost jobs and can’t pay rent or buy food and are scared right now. I’m healthy at the moment while so many people are fighting for their lives. My husband is a priest, and I help chant for him, so I still get to be present at church and receive communion while most people can only experience the services virtually or read them and are not able to commune for the time being. I’ve felt both guilty and grateful for these things, and I’ve had to remind myself that I don’t need to feel guilty for feeling gratitude; that’s not productive. It is absolutely good to be mindful of and hold space for the pain of others. If I feel smug because of the blessings in my life, that is certainly something that needs to be squashed quickly; it’s antithetical to love. Gratitude itself is healing though and is something to cling to and nourish when it sprouts. True gratitude is humble. It knows what it has was given, and it holds it all with open hands.
I’m learning more about being simultaneously more gracious with myself while also being more disciplined. These are not normal times. I need to be gentle with myself⎯or rather, make space to relax into the Lord’s gentleness towards me. Also, though, routines are helpful for me, and making myself do things that I know are good for me even when I don’t want to do them is caring for myself. I really struggle with structuring my times for prayer and silence, but making sure those happen morning and night bookends my days with peace in a chaotic time. Today I’ve been frustrated with myself for my lack of productivity; it’s been hard to focus on the things I wanted to do, so I took a step back and asked myself what I needed, and the answer was to bake a healthy version of my favorite cookies while listening to a beloved album that always makes me feel a sweet combination of comfort and hope. The smell of pumpkin and cloves is filling my kitchen now, and the restlessness I felt earlier is sloughing off. If I don’t get all the things done I hoped I would today, that’s ok. I know I’ll be more centered after taking the time to do something creative and restorative.
Because of the nature of this crisis, I am also learning more about being present and taking life day by day. Everything is changing so fast; I’m reminded constantly that I can’t know what tomorrow holds. I’m taking walks and noticing the little details around me and acknowledging the beauty there. I’m opening the bag of coffee beans each morning and inhaling deeply and savoring the smell and thanking God for it. I’m staying longer in my husband’s hugs. I’m not so quick to end snuggles with my over-twenty-year-old cat. Earlier this week while I was on a long walk and several miles from home, what had been flurries turned into a snowstorm. As I walked back, the path was increasingly hard to see. It was a sweet reminder to just focus on the step I was on and the one right after it and enjoy the beauty that was descending thickly on everything around me, giving the river a thin, solid surface and even coating the geese. The Annunciation just passed. It’s such a sweet feast and a lovely reminder for me of all that God really asks of us: to submit humbly to Him, as Mary did, again and again as He presents Himself to us anew each moment.
The last thing I want to write about is how I keep reminding myself that Pascha will still happen this year, even if the services can’t take place in the same way and we can’t joyously embrace each other. One thing I’ve thought is so sweet is that this is reminding us that our homes are little churches. Even if we all⎯out of care for one another and necessity during this crisis⎯celebrate physically removed from each other, Pascha itself is not canceled. It will still happen. We can belt out our joy separately, together. This will be my third Pascha up north, but up until 2018, I had only ever celebrated Pascha at the parish I converted at: a delightfully quirky, incredibly endearing, and constantly growing church in Atlanta. The nave would be so packed it was hard to find space to stand, and I never got home from the celebrations before morning. Everything about it was so replete with joy; it felt magical. I was nervous in 2018 that being with people whom I didn’t know as well at the time at a smaller parish in a different jurisdiction without much of the music and many of the traditions I was used to would feel disappointing. I expected to feel very homesick and wistful, but instead it was so beautiful to experience Pascha a thousand miles from home and feel the sweetest sense of connection to everyone else celebrating, not just those there with me but with my home church, and also with everyone around the world. I realized it wasn’t about where I was celebrating; Pascha itself was and is my home, the end of all my journeys, my true identity, my place of refuge, and the source of the deepest possible joy I can know. I’m not sure what it will be like to celebrate Pascha this year in the middle of a pandemic, but I believe it will feel similarly to my first one up north: different from any Pascha I’ve ever known before but still completely immersed in that joy that connects us all no matter where we are, the joy that:
