Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Slow Moe--Thoughts on Lent

One of my childhood nicknames was "Slow Moe." My sisters still pull that one out sometimes, and as I parent my own child who cannothurryforthelifeofher, I understand the frustration that my slowness caused. I always wanted just a little more time to do this, or a few more minutes to finish that--the that often being a book I was reading, a poem I was writing, or a daydream I was having.  I was that child.

Today is the first day of Lent, and although I haven't been Catholic since that Sunday in 5th grade when my dad yanked the whole family out of the pew in the morning and out of Sacred Heart School that same afternoon, there is something about Lent that is attractive to me.

I have memories of being Catholic, memories of Lent.

I remember going to mass, dipping my fingers in the holy water, making the sign of the cross, hoping no one would notice that I did it twice in hopes that a double dip might make me more holy. I remember walking through the Stations of the Cross, the smell of the wooden pews and floors, the confessional, and as we took in the stained glass pictures, the sometimes graphic representations of Jesus' last days, I remember that even the boys in my class were silent as they understood the weight of what we were seeing. They understood the blood.

And I remember eating McDonald's fish sandwiches on Friday nights with my family (because this post was getting a little too somber).

The past few days I have been reading about Lent--its origins, how people practice it, the meaning of those ash-smudged foreheads, and this is where I've ended up: Lent is the season for me. Slow Moe.

You see, most historians believe that the term "lent" originated from a Germanic Language. It was  a word that meant "Spring," but more specifically "the lengthening of days." As the sun set later and later, their days became longer, and many Northern Europeans celebrated those extra hours with a Lenten feast. Originally, it had nothing to do with the carpenter from Nazareth.

French Christians also claim ownership of the term "Lent," which to francophiles simply means "slow." In their understanding, Lent was a time to slow down, consider their own mortality (thus "Ash Wednesday") and think of Jesus' life, his ministry, and ultimately, his sacrifice.  In acknowledgment of Jesus' death, French Catholics began to sacrifice or "give up" something for Lent.

So what is the significance of all this history to me, a former Catholic, former Wesleyan, former completely-confused-young-woman-turned-well, just a Christian?

Most days I find myself wishing for more time: More time to finish the laundry, more time to write better lesson plans, more time to read with my kids, more time for long conversations with girlfriends, more time to sip my coffee slowly and savor the life God has given to me. Instead of "lingering longer," as one friend calls it, I find myself rushing, hurrying, running behind, catching up, trying to accomplish just one more thing, then falling in bed exhausted at the end of the day.

And it just doesn't suit me.

I want to slow down. I want to "lengthen" my days, yet I, like everyone else on this beautiful, blue green planet, am allotted just 24 hours in each one. I can't add a second.

But maybe by changing how I spend those 24 hours and by spending more of them on things that matter and less on things that don't, essentially I can add time to my day.

So here's the "sacrifice" aspect of Lent for me, what I'm "giving up": Bye, bye, Facebook.

For the next 40 days--actually 46, but for some reason we don't count Sundays--I'm going to take those precious minutes (hours?) formerly spent getting in other people's business, and instead use them to get into my own. I'm going to "linger longer" as my sweet baby girl Soli climbs into my lap to reads to me, knowing that a few months from now or a year from now, she might resist sitting on my lap, might see it as too babyish.

And I'll spend those extra minutes on the floor with Kai, bouncing that green ball back and forth, again and again, searing the sound of his sweet baby laughter into my memory.

And I'll take an extra few minutes at lunch with Maya, as she embellishes her morning in Kindergarten for my enjoyment, reveling in the extra attention she gets when Makai is napping and sissy Soli is at school.

And in the early morning, cup of dark roast in hand, I'll open my bible to Ecclesiastes, and I'll read that most of our lives are spent "chasing the wind" and that death will come to us all, and to all of us it WILL. SEEM. TOO. SOON.  The message will resonate with me, will echo throughout my morning, will settle in deep by afternoon, and I will live a better life that day because of this knowledge.

And as I slow down, as I eliminate distraction, as I practice Lent, not as some religious way of gaining God's favor, but as a means of focusing, as a means of seeing God, of noticing the work of Jesus Christ in the dailyness of my life, then 24 hours?

They might just be enough.

1 comment:

  1. Melissa,
    I totally understand your connection to Lent. I am a former Lutheran, you understand, so I, too, have some numinous memories of time spent in a traditional church. I remember the air redolent with the aroma of furniture polish from weekly-dusted pews, the satiny feel of the ribbons in the hymnal to hold the numerous pages, the glorious kaleidoscopic rays of colors from the stained glass when the sun shone through, the tart taste of the grape juice and the papery texture of the wafers of communion.

    Lenten and Easter times always make me more aware of the need to slow down, too. They make me aware of the need to sacrifice something significant. I joke that I am going to sacrifice things that I don't really love (like grading and lesson planning)...but I know that I really need to give up something I would actually miss.

    Thanks, Moe--for the reminder to slow down and treasure the things that matter.

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