So the Past Walks into a Bar…

I waited for her on the quad of our alma mater.

I arrived first, feeling nervous. It had been well over 10 years since we last spoke heart to heart. How much had changed? Would it be all surface level banter? Would I tell her of my struggles and open my heart to her, like the old days? Or would she be a stranger, far too removed to share that old bond of friendship?

My old college roommate – a long lost best friend and a woman I once considered a sister – was meeting me for dinner.

“Simonne!” Out of no where, she sprinted up to me and gave me the biggest hug, nearly knocking me over. Deborah hadn’t aged a day, in fact, she seemed locked in time at 25, despite being almost 40. Her long blonde hair and shining blue eyes looked more of a college student than a married mother of three who had a corner office and her own secretary.

10+ years might as well have been a few weeks for all the difference it made.

We chatted with animation as we made our way to a local college hangout joint for dinner. I forgot how easy it was to talk to her and how she listened so intently.

No sooner had we gotten our food and we were already diving into the nitty gritty of our lives.

“I got an IUD and its been wonderful,” said Deborah. Then she chuckled, “Look at us, we’ve hung out all of a half hour and we’re already talking about birth control.”

It was quite reminiscent of our college chats. “Well, we decided to go the infertility route, and so far, that’s worked pretty well for us,” I deadpanned.

Our eyes locked and then we both burst out laughing. It was the first time I could genuinely laugh in the face of my childlessness. Once we stopped laughing, she touched my hand with sad eyes. “I’m so sorry that’s part of your story. What happened?” The whole unedited saga came out. 

She was silent, nodding as I finished my story. “Five years ago, huh? That was right about the time my marriage impolded.” It was my turn to listen with wide eyes. “We were almost destroyed, but counseling saved us. We’ve been a great team ever since.”

I shook my head in disbelief. What upset me the most was that we were both struggling with big issues and didn’t lean on each other because we lost touch. 

We left the restaurant and wandered around campus. We both are diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and empaths: I’m an Enneagram 9, she’s a 2. I told her how much her words of encouragement had an effect on me after college, by calling me out on my friends with benefits situation.

“Wow, I sounded like such a dick, I’m so sorry,” she apologized.

“No, it came from a place of love, you called me out on my bullshit,” I said. “I needed to hear those those words.”

She signed. “It still sounded harsh. But yeah…I could use a Deborah in my life now.”

I nodded. “Everyone needs a Deborah.”

I confessed I thought I was too clingy when we were roommates, constantly chatting with her at all hours about the boys I got myself tangled up with.

“Oh Simonne,” she said, “we were kids, we were just trying to figure life out. I never saw you as clingy or a burden. I always thought I was the bad roommate because I hardly cleaned and had stuff everywhere.”

I laughed. “I have no memory of you being a bad roommate or leaving a mess.”

It was so cathartic.

We stopped in at our old bar and it was still 2003 in there. We grabbed our drinks and we talked about the old days. I told her I lost touch with the boys of college, she mentioned my ex-boyfriend’s wife looks like a carbon copy of me; I found that quite amusing. She talked about her kids (“This doesn’t bother you?” “Nope, not one bit, keep going.”) and how she ran into one of our old mutual friends from the parties we hosted, and I told her about my writing.

A couple hours later, she had to go home. I was so sad to see her go. A part of me felt like we’d walk back to our old apartment and everything would be as it was. But it wasn’t. We were older and wiser; you couldn’t hide our battle scars since our days as students or the fact we had become more of our own. She was still the same old Deborah, but now she had this quiet widsom about her that wasn’t there before. Her confidence was obvious: it wasn’t hidden away like it was in college. I wonder what she would say about me.

Deborah stated that she is terrible at keeping in touch. I’m determined not to lose contact with her, now that we are caught up on each other’s lives. She is too beautiful of a soul to be lost to time again. Like Phoebe, Ruth, Madge, and Rebeka, they are the women I want by my side as I grow older.

If you have a Deborah in your life and too many years have gotten between you, reach out. A friendship may sail back into the harbor. Or it may not, but it’s well worth finding out.

Make Like a Plant and Leave

The hashtag #exvangelical is comprised of people who have left Christianity and some who are still Christian but don’t believe the Americanized gospel flavor we’ve all been seasoned with. Every time I see this hashtag, I think of David. He’s the reason I came to Christ, yet I don’t think he’d walk into a church today.

David was an outcast in high school and had no sense of self. I’m not even sure how we became friends. He had a crush on me, but I ensured we’d never leave the friend zone.

David went to a Christian conference and came back saved. I mean saved. Instead of being “on fire,” as they say in the Southern Baptist circles, this kid was his own little forest fire – slightly out of control and too hot to get close to. I remember telling him as an apathetic Catholic that it was great he found Jesus in his life (didn’t seem like a bad thing, really), but he needed to start acting like a normal person again. After a couple of weeks, he returned to normal David mode, but this Jesus thing stuck. I got curious about all this and ended up at a youth game night at church. This was the beginning of my story with following Jesus.

David had a vision from God on the bus home once. I was part of that vision, where God told David that He would take care of me. David shepherded me in my new faith and our friendship grew closer because of it. He wanted to become a pastor. Even our classmates nicknamed him “Rev” as he was never without his Bible and sometimes overstepped his boundaries with calling out someone else’s sin. “Simonne,” he’d say, drawing out the “onn” part. “What are you doing? You know where that can lead,” after I told him about making out with my boyfriend in the woods. I filtered most of that because I didn’t want his wisdom bestowed upon me. We were all virgins, True Love Waits was part of our church curriculum, and our drink of choice was Mt. Dew. Still, Rev David wanted to make sure we were living pure God-honoring lives. He was a one man inquisition.

I vaguely remember when it started. “I asked Pastor about it and he shut me down,” a dejected David shared with me. “He actually yelled at me, saying something about just accepting it on faith.” David wanted more information on the supernatural part of the gospel – demons, ghosts – stuff like that. Apparently at this church, questioning too deeply meant you didn’t believe correctly, didn’t have enough faith, or were trying to circumvent the pillars of the SBC. David was upset his questions were continually dismissed with some glossed-over church verbiage.

We left for college. David went to an ultra conservative Christian one. While there, he met Jessie, a preacher’s kid. They fell in love so hard it caused them to drop out of college and get married the summer after freshman year. Jessie was a few weeks pregnant when they walked down the aisle. I found this out at the rehearsal dinner.

Their marriage was tumultuous. They attended church here and there and then not at all. Jessie forbade me from contacting David. She had what I can only describe as a mental illness and two more kids later, she abandoned the family by hopping on a Greyhound bus to Pennsylvania to meet some guy she met in an internet chatroom. Once it was all figured out and the missing person report was trashed, David filed for divorce. The judge granted him full legal custody. Thank God.

David married again. Some years ago, David apologized for severing our friendship because of his ex-wife. I stepped away because I naively thought their marriage was more important than our friendship; now I would view it as a sign of abuse. I hoped it would restart our friendship, but it didn’t. The last time we spoke David wasn’t the guy I remembered. He had a faraway look in his eye and we only small talked for five minutes before he had to go.

On his social media profile, it says “Ask me” under religion. I’d like to someday.

Most Southern Baptists would just say he was never saved to begin with if he’s fallen this far away. I disagree. I believed his faith was real. Was David just a seed that fell on those rocky places? Was he all leaves and stem and no root? Did the church ever amend the soil for him? I don’t know. But I wonder: will he be reseeded? Will anyone water him? Is there anyone in his life with a big old bucket of spiritual compost?

I’ve always wanted to reach out to him, see how he’s doing, but I’m afraid that season of friendship had sailed. I don’t have that kind of access anymore. Decades later, I’ve changed, he’s changed – is there any common ground left, outside of the distant past?

I wonder if he considers himself an exvangelical. Does he read his Bible? Does he pray? Have his children grown up knowing the Lord? I can only speculate, but I think the answer is no.

I’m leaving the door open to the possibilities, praying once again Jesus will connect our lives.

Parable of the Grape Vine

“I am the vine and my Father is the vinedresser.”

Since becoming a vinedresser last year to a bronze magnolia scuppernong muscadine grape vine (or grape mom, as I call myself), I’ve learned a lot. I am self-taught, but I am now well on my way to a bounty of grapes for next year.

Last year my vine didn’t grape because it was young and not pruned correctly – I mistakenly thought I should hold back on the young plant. It made loads of leaves. Luscious, green, and healthy leaves without a hint of grapes. My neighbors said the plant was probably too young to grape, but it was really my pruning sheers. I pruned it over the winter in hopes of fruit. I ended up pruning it incorrectly for its size, but it prevailed.

Behold, fruit! This is all of it. Like a new Christian, it isn’t much, but it is something! In addition to the fetal grapes – it made even more leaves than last year – a few more branches too. Grapes come from new growth on old growth – its a delicate balancing act. You can’t have every branch make grapes. The fruit will taste bad because it’s limited resources are spread too thin. 

Sound like any Christians you know?

“Every branch in me that does not bear fruit He takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.”

A proper grapevine will concentrate the grapes to the fruiting arms off the main vine – you have to cut back on the beautiful folage if you want grapes. The main vine trunk sustains everything – the fruit is on the on the braches – never the trunk. 

“As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me.  I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.”

I read this verse in John 15 with fresh eyes and heart after taking care of a grape vine for two growing seasons. The Lord wants us to bear fruit, not folage. Fruiting doesnt just spontaneously happen like leaves: it requires removing things, even good things, to make room for the fruit. It requires direction and it’s a limited venture: grapes only come off the fruiting spurs on the braches. The fruiting spurs come from pruning most of the previous season’s growth. I know it sounds counterproductive to our Americanistic ideals, but I am continuously reminded that the way of God doesnt really jive with the way Americans are bred to live, think, and act. 

This grape vine is a tangile reminder that the gospel is alive, the Lord knows what we need when we need it. Only He can prune the branches where they need to be. Jesus is the trunk of the vine, sustaining everything. 

And if I’m really quiet in the garden, I can hear the Holy Spirit.

The Old Ways

Last weekend, something mechanical died in our refrigerator. The door was warm to the touch and the ice/water dispenser suddenly stopped working. We worried about an electrical fire, so we bought a new fridge – to be delivered in a week – and unplugged it when we weren’t home or sleeping. Two days later, I couldn’t plug it in without blowing the kitchen circuit. This fridge was over 20 years old and original to the house. It survived the original smoking owners in the late 90’s (it’s white but the handles are yellowed with nicotine) and the previous owners, who ran quite the heroin business, destroyed it on an aesthetic and biohazard level (how do you scuff and scrape the inside of a fridge and not clean it when its obviously filthy?!). It was ugly, but it functioned. 

Our new fridge is smaller and doesn’t have the ice maker or water dispenser. I will miss that, but then again, this fridge fits in better with our simple, minimalistic if you will, lifestyle. 

The old fridge didn’t have a filter on the waterline and God only knows what was growing in those lines undectected. I always thought the ice tasted weird. Now we’re moving forward with a Brita pitcher and ice cube trays. It will be cleaner with no more atrohpied ice cubes or questionable water. I’m more aware of my surroundings when I have to do something about them. I don’t see it as a burden, I see it as living purposely. Just like following after Christ.

One of my favorite bloggers, Lore Ferguson Wilbert, once wrote about the joy of pitting cherries by hand, even though it took ages and buying them prepared could save time for something else. She says,

“….but when everything exists to make our lives easier, faster, more automated, and less work, well, what else is there to do but commentate? We become merely observers of life and not partakers in it.”

Lore Ferguson Wilbert

There is something calming to me about slowing down and working with my hands, becoming a part of the work that needs to be done. Whether it’s weeding the garden, mowing my lawn with a cutreel, watering my plants via watering can, or evening putting away the dishes, I’m taking the time to become a part my environment and be still without rushing to the next thing. I am partaking in my garden, not merely observing it. When I tell people I make bread, their eyes light up, “Oh, you have a bread machine?” No, I kneed, prove for an hour, knock it back, then wait another hour before baking for another hour. They always look befuddled. Who has the time for such things? I can only think, “Who has the money for a bread machine and the space to store it?”

The old ways are dying. We live in a very automated age and I think it bleeds over into our churches and everyday lives, where we expect things that should to take time, to act like an HVAC system: a touch of a button changes things to your comfort level and the troubleshooting manual or repair person will get your system working again. Grief, doubts, job frustration, marriage problems, singleness – we expect a quick fix because everything else in life has two day shipping or can be deduced after a few queries in a search engine. But it doesn’t work that way. God designed life not to work that way.

I recently discovered the joys of a french press coffee maker. I’ve abandoned my screen filtered drip coffee maker entirely. Yes, it takes more effort on my part, but the taste is worth it. I have this coffee ritual now: boil the water in the kettle, pour it onto my coffee grounds, stir, then wait four minutes before pressing the grounds, releasing all the flavor and oils. Of course, I add my natural creamer with sugar and the result is pure heaven. I’d rather have a good cuppa that takes a few extra minutes than a fast meh one. Also, my old coffee maker is in desperate need of a vinegar bath; something is probably growing in the moist dark inner parts. I can soak every part of the french press.

Faster isn’t always better. Sometimes the slow old ways remind us to slow down and take in life.

Just like I made time for Jesus, I am also making ice cubes and refilling a filtered pitcher of water for my family. And now, coffee takes a few more pouring and stirring steps. It’s part of life here at the Dovecote, and I am proud to be a part of it.

Gardening Contemplation

Since turning to the contemplative prayer lifestyle, it’s changed other areas of my life which I never expected. Ah, but such is the life of a Christian.

In short, contemplative prayer involves meditation. It is taking the time to be silent before God and just be. It’s a chance for my soul to rest at the feet of my Lord. It goes further than just checking a box while reading the morning devotion. It means quality over quantity: reading a short passage or a line of Scripture and mulling it over in your mind for a few minutes. Sometimes it means unpacking the message, viewing the context from the view of someone in the passage, or asking yourself questions and how it relates to your treatment of others/God. Other times it’s imagining the sights, sounds, and smells that would accompany the words of Scripture.

It’s an anathema to modern American Christianity. It’s centering. It’s quiet. No flashy lights, no sleek messaging, nearly impossible to Instagram it. It is simply dwelling with Jesus. I use the Pray As You Go app during my lunch walk. It’s an English production and while it is backed by the Catholic Church, it’s so focused on Jesus, you won’t be able to tell it’s Catholic.

Following Jesus means you’re living a life of intention. For many Christians, Christianity is habit, not an intent. Contemplative prayer breaks you out of the typical Christian humdrum of bouncing across the surface instead of plumbing the depths – sometimes where the light doesn’t shine. I want the real Jesus, not this sanitized American version that comes with the “If you do X, God will do Y” formula. That is nothing more than a prosperity gospel dressed up for a middle class capitalistic society with education and money.

A fruit of my garden labor….my favorite garden flower, a Camellia (Corina variety)

I’ve become a better gardener since becoming contemplative. So many times we plant things and then life happens: days, weeks, months later we go to find them dead, diseased, or struggling to survive. We promise to do better and then we don’t. We don’t follow through. Our modern lives are filled with so many things that light up, ding, talk to us – not to mention cooking, cleaning, eating, sleeping, random household things – there simply isn’t time.

I disagree.

If you make it a priority, it’ll happen. But that’s just it: you have to want it and make time for it. Sometimes 10 minutes of contemplative prayer is better than an hour long Bible study. I do a quick survey in my yard at least once a day to see how things are going and address the issues straightaway. Beyond that, it’s a tangible way for me to slow down and take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the garden. I get joy from seeing my double formal Camellias carry on with green glossy leaves. My tea plants are flushing with new growth, although they’re still well below my knee. The bed I made around the water oaks with ajuga from my old house, white lantana, and a prized red azalea as its center piece always makes me smile – especially now that the ajuga is taking off. Pretty soon I’ll have to divide it up and give it away someone else.

That’s the beauty of the garden – I get to share it with others. Just like the peace and calmness I get from sitting quietly before Jesus, contemplating the finer notes of Scripture, savoring every new leaf and rejoicing at the flower buds.

Slow down, you busy Christians. This life Jesus calls us to is meant to be lived with purpose and love. Yes, sometimes life gets crazy busy – that will happen – but it should not be a lifestyle to maintain.


Feasting for Body and Soul

“Hey, you should come see what it’s all about,” my contact said. I agreed.

The venue was teaming with people; a lot of white folks, a lot of black folks. Some lived on the streets, some lived in houses. Others didn’t make it to high school. Some had post graduate degrees. Most were like me, somewhere in between, but none of that mattered here. We were all here to be fed.

I darted to the back of the room, as I do. My contact greeted me, while I was waiting for the line of food to go down. I saw a hand wave at me in the crowd of tables. Joe. His wife Marianne was next to him. I wandered over to their table, I hadn’t heard from them in months, despite texting them. Marianne and I hugged. “Phone got stolen,” Marianne said sadly. She gave me her new number, a 302 area code: Delaware. “I don’t know how I got that,” she says. “It’s just what they gave me.” Joe told me he’s still learning German with Duolingo. They’re getting housing soon, by month’s end. I tell them if they need help moving and cleaning to call me, I’ll help. I hope the housing isn’t a mirage this time.

I make my way to the food. It’s all the good southern cooking: chicken, bbq pork, mac ‘n cheese, baked beans, green beans, potato salad, coleslaw, the good rolls, and enough cookies to give the room diabetes. The seats at Joe and Marianne’s table filled up, so I was left to find my own table. It felt like the lunch room on the first day at a new school.

I saw an open seat at a table with strangers. “May I sit here?” I asked an old man. “Go right ahead young lady,” he said. The man was obviously on the streets, unwashed, and looked generally unhealthy. “I ain’t never seen you around here before,” he drawled in a smooth southern accent. “I’m usually behind the scenes,” I replied. He’s from here, as was the lady across the table, who was in much the same state as the old man. The lady – who must have been in her late 40’s – spoke about losing her parents two years apart. She talked about it as if it just happened – it was 25 years ago – but that pain was very recent to her. I’ve noticed that a lot among the extreme poverty stricken: there’s always unhealed trauma poking its head through the surface, like a noxious weed.

As the dinner line wound down, the service started. The Master of Ceremonies began with deep breathing exercises and a centering bell, straight out of a contemplative handbook. A woman with a guitar started playing and everyone sang Happy Birthday to someone at a near by table. He was tickled pink at the acknowledgment. The woman sang the old hymns like a soul who knew pain, which resonated with the room. And then she broke into “Hallelujah.” This group sang it like a worship song, its aching lyrics reaching out to the shattered hearts. The song is really about the ending of a sexual relationship, but its roots are in agony. They ended with “Amazing Grace,” and the singer didn’t know all the lyrics, so the crowd filled in the blanks.

All the while, people were milling about the room: using bathrooms, grabbing a last morsel of food, heading outside for a smoke break – some people got up and switched tables for seemingly no reason. The room, like much of these people’s lives, was in a constant state fluid motion.

A short sermon was preached by a woman pastor. Her thesis statement was spot on: The Word became flesh and moved into the neighborhood. Indeed it did.

There was a time for prayer which included soothing piano music and lighting a candle by the altar to honor that prayer. I nearly went up to light one for my struggling loved one, but I didn’t. The room had largely cleared out. Many had left after the meal, which is fine by this group. “Eating together is part of the worship service, it’s their decision to stay for more.”

The pastor celebrated communion. As I went up, I saw a familiar face from church. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, patting my shoulder as he walked past.

At the end of the service, the room was nearly vacant. Even Joe and Marianne had vanished into thin air. One by one everyone had slowly melted into the night, scattering like dandelion seeds in the wind.

Just like everyone else, I left that night with a full stomach and a full soul.

That Saturday

Holy Saturday, Batman.

I’ve always been intrigued by this day in the Lenten season only because it contains so much mystery, my mind goes straight for what is unknown. Luke says it best: “On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment.” (Luke 23:56)

I can only imagine this was the worst Sabbath ever.

Sadness. Despair. Confusion. That kind of misery that makes you curl up into a ball. Everything they had been living for, everything they had known in the past three life-changing years was now pulled out from under them. Being the Sabbath, they couldn’t leave to walk to a fellow disciple’s house to grieve. They were stuck, alone in their own homes with the senseless grief. And how could they honor God when He took is Son away from them? How could God let this happen? Was following all for naught?

What of Mary? Man, I would have loved to have her take on all this. God chose her as a vessel to bring Jesus into the world, and then took Him out of it in the most tragic way ever, and she was there to witness it all. It could have all been prevented, she probably thought, yet God let it happen. The struggle, the do-loop of the whole ordeal replaying over and over in her mind, stuck in the terrible state of a melancholy heartbreak. Even time, it seemed in this moment, would not ease the pain.

What of Peter? He claimed to be the one to take a bullet for Jesus, yet told a stranger – a lowly servant girl of all people, not even a Roman soldier type figure – that he never knew this Jesus person multiple times. And now Jesus was gone. How would he go on?

What would happen next?

What were the other disciples thinking? How did they get through the darkest day of their lives? I wish there was some record of their thoughts and actions.

My favorite devotional app has a short devotion about Holy Saturday that really touched me this morning, exploring the weight of today.

I’m ready for Sunday. And sweets.

Take It to the Lord in Prayer

I was caulking a bathroom window during a recent remodel when out of no where, I heard that voice in my head.

“You need to pray for Ruth’s future in this coming year.”

Wait, what?

I love how the Lord really does meet you where you are in the moment when the focus is elsewhere. I am amused how when I’m walking during my contemplation devotional time, He largely remains silent, yet when I’m in the middle of something mundane – like caulking a window – He decides to pipe up.

I paused caulking as I took in the gravity of all this. Alright, I can do that. I wasn’t sure what I was praying for, as her life was in a state of flux, but it always comes around to the same thing: that she would seek the Lord’s guidance and that whichever path she should take would be lit by His guiding light.

You can’t miss those lighted walkways.

I must confess that I haven’t always been consistent about it, but today, it hit me that it needs to be a priority.

  “Take it to the Lord in prayer;
In His arms, He’ll take and shield thee,
  Thou wilt find a solace there” (J. Scriven)

Our church is contemplating another quest for leading the community to Jesus. The idea has been floated as an abstract thought, but it is moving closer into the realm of strong possibility. I did some investigative research about it and already went into the mode of “We could do X and I’ll take charge of it!”

My pastor smiled. “That’s all well and good, Simonne. You can start by praying.”

I wasn’t prepared for his response, but I should have been. I nodded. Of course. It’s not a done deal, there are moving parts and a lot of unknowns. A lot of ground has to be covered first, it might not even happen!

Since becoming a student of contemplative prayer, I’m more about doing than sitting back and praying – I was the opposite in my proper American Christian don’t-get-too-close-to-the-action conservative days.

I need to strike a balance. Action and prayer. Prayer and action. One shouldn’t supersede the other, but they should go together in concert.

Like salt and caramel. Or cream cheese icing and red velvet cake.

It restarts today.

Lented

Two weeks til Easter.

This season of Lent is dragging.

It seems like months ago I ate that last decadent cupcake on Fat Tuesday. My sweets fast started out strong and I was bemused at how easy it was at first. Now it’s a struggle – I find myself wafting the fresh gourmet donuts in the breakroom and avoiding ice cream at events to become increasingly difficult.

While fasting, I left the door open for the Lord to lead me wherever I needed to be on this Lenten journey. I faithfully listened to my favorite contemplative app, Pray As You Go, and even signed up for an email devotional from Ed Cyzewski.

But nothing has changed for me. 

I’ve had no great epiphanies, no moments of wonder, and I haven’t experienced any growth in this “wilderness.”

Will the bud produce a leaf or die like the others did? Time will tell.

The only concrete conclusion is that I eat far too many sweets. I’ve lost 1kg, and if I play my cards right, maybe 2kg before summer. Part of me feels that I need to keep this fast going 90% of the time to keep myself healthy and my weight in check.

Lent isnt over yet. Perhaps something will move, perhaps not.

Nonetheless, I’m open to the possibilities.

Lenting Around

Growing up Catholic, Lent was a big deal: eating meat on Fridays was sinful, Ash Wednesday Service was a must, and you HAD to give something up. In my early teenage years, I gave up chocolate or TV. Eventually, I stopped watching TV altogether even after Easter. I got on just fine without it; our family had four channels that came in through the antenna. I wasn’t missing much. The chocolate was always welcomed back!

When I became a Christian and attended a Southern Baptist church, they always looked at me funny: they didn’t do Lent. It wasn’t in the Bible nor was it part of their traditions. This was fine by me.

I hadn’t even given Lent any thought until my husband and I joined a Methodist church a few years ago. Methodists celebrate Lent in a very casual way: it’s not required, but if you feel lead to participate, you were in good company. The first year, I gave up sweets and lost nearly seven pounds! The second year I was in an emotional tailspin and decided adding one more thing to my plate when my entire life was a mess was not a good decision for my mental health. Last year I gave up sweets again didn’t lose an ounce of weight – but unlike my Catholic years, I ate sweets on Sundays.

Note to self: you’ll return to dust someday.

This year I am once again giving up sweets. It’s my only real vice that I indulge in on a near daily basis and would miss if removed. I considered giving up alcohol too, but in all honesty, I drink so little that it wouldn’t impact a fast. I’ve also decided to follow my husband in fasting the whole Lent, no Sunday breaks: he’s giving up fried foods. It’s his version of chocolate and living in south, well, it’s an effort to avoid.

This fast will hopefully reset my taste buds and relationship to sweets, while focusing on the Lord. I’d love nothing more to drop a few pounds, eat less sugar, and walk closer to Jesus. I’m not sure where this Lenten journey will lead, but isn’t that part of the wilderness journey?

Today is Mardi Gras (literally, fat Tuesday in French) and I intend to send myself into Lent with style. I haven’t decided what sugary delectable I am going to consume tonight, but I am looking forward to it. I even had dessert after breakfast. C’mon, it’s Mardi Gras!

I had a pastor say something to me awhile ago that brought my brain to a screeching halt: What is going to fill the void sweets leaves? The answer was not healthy granola bars: what spiritual practices are you going to put into place in this season? The short answer is I don’t know. Perhaps carve out time for more Bible reading? Read a book of the Bible? Serious centering/contemplative prayer?

I think the answer will come to me when I’m craving ice cream.