Descending this Lent

     Walking in a Lenten direction.

Last night, I went to a movie about P. T. Barnum, the great circus creator. I’m not sure how much of it was accurate, but I was struck by his ability to imagine, his willingness to take chances, and how it almost cost him his family. In a confrontation with his wife in a particularly dark period, he confesses he pushed things so far because he wanted to be more than he was.

I felt convicted by his words. I can look back and see countless attempts to be more than I was. Instead of a circus, I used a school. Instead of entertaining, I used education. Instead of a red jacket, I used a collar. While the particulars are my own, I’m sure I’m not alone in striving to be someone other than who I am. It’s exhausting, and can end up costing us what matters most.

The season of Lent begins on Wednesday, and, while created by the Church to help followers prepare for Easter, it is often thought of as a time to give things up. Ironically, people often use the season to take more things on as they strive to be more than who they are. It becomes a divine self-improvement program, if you will, and I wonder if it isn’t time to use it in a new way. Instead of trying to be who we aren’t, maybe we should use it to become who we are.

On the surface, it might sound easy, but our strivings are deep-rooted and well disguised. Do we volunteer because we love the organization, or do we like to be able to say we volunteer? Do we love running a bank, or do we love being known as someone who runs a bank? Do we go to this party because we love these people, or do we go because we want to be sure to mingle with the right people?

It will take time and effort to separate our visions of who we might be from who we truly are. It will mean walking the spiritual stairs in a new direction. Instead of ascending the stairs and trying to become who we’ve always thought we were (or wanted to be), it will require descending and discerning who we truly are. It’s a new approach to an old season, but it can lead to new life on the other end, and wasn’t that point in the first place?

A Lenten Invitation

LENT:  A SACRED WRITE

Please join us as we walk through Lent with our journals and pens!

In an effort to grow along spiritual lines this Lent, a group of us will be reflecting and writing our way to Easter. Each morning, beginning on Ash Wednesday (2/14), we will respond to a prompt (sent through e mail) by writing for 15 minutes (or more :)) The prompts will ask us to look within, reflect on our lives, and see how we are a part of something far greater than ourselves.

If interested, please e mail: chipbristol@gmail.com 

A Eucharistic feast

I arrived early, so I could have some time alone in Mom’s house before my siblings joined me to divide her possessions. Walking up the driveway, my legs were stiff, as if filled with fear or unresolved grief. The house looked as it always had. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought mom was inside, maybe sitting in the TV room playing solitaire, with her dog nestled against her leg, or puttering in the kitchen preparing tea for us with formal china, fancy cookies, and linen napkins which she adamantly urged me to use. I knew better, though. The house was empty, and I went to find the hidden key and unlocked the door.

My first impression was it smelled like her. Whether from lingering perfume, or years of overcooked casseroles, I couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. It was just “her.” A book she’d been reading was on the coffee table, and her calendar was spread open by the phone with her unmistakable handwriting. There were birthdays written in the top right hand corner of particular days (which she never forgot), and appointments made she didn’t realize she wouldn't keep. I looked at the photographs scattered around the house as if I’d never seen them before. These were the people she loved most, the ones she wanted around her each day. Mementos were also displayed like a museum, a collage of a life lived fully, causing me to stand off to the side taking it all in one last time before the sacred ground was disturbed.

Mom was not her possessions, but I could feel her through her things. The portrait of our father as a young boy hanging over the fireplace spoke of a love that never died, the martini statue with an olive that lit up spoke of her love of a good time, and the hand-painted hippo by a grandson spoke of her uncanny ability to multiply, not divide, her love for all her grandchildren. In the Bible, it speaks of stones shouting. In Mom’s case, her possessions sang, and it was a gift to listen to the familiar song.

I ran my hand along the fabric of her living room couch and noticed a pillow indented from the last time she sat there. I went and laid on her canopy bed, and, like a child learning to swim, wanted to doggy paddle my way back into the safest arms I’ve ever known. A 58 year old father, I felt more like a seven year-old son.

She was gone, but tables, chairs, and china would serve, like bread and wine, as reminders to those who loved her most. “Do this in remembrance of me,” the words go. Her presence would remain. Hearing my siblings arrive, I knew it was time for the Eucharistic Feast.