When I tell people that Daryl and I are spending the year apart, I get a whole variety of reactions. Most of my female friends are instantly sympathetic.
“Ohhhh… how difficult!” they say. “That must be so hard! How do you manage it?” This is by far the most common reaction. Other reactions have included:
“Well, that must be kind of nice, right? I mean, you can just do whatever you want with your free time then, can't you?” This was from an unmarried male friend, who clearly did not know what he was talking about for two reasons. #1. I can still do whatever I want with my free time when I am living with Daryl. Often what I want to do is spend that time with him. Now that I’m in Jersey and he’s in Tennessee, often I still want to spend that time with him, but can’t. This stinks. #2. It isn’t “kind of nice.” It’s kind of crappy. The thing about being married to someone is that you usually really like them. And want to, you know, live with them. I was at least relieved that this comment came from an unmarried male friend, not a married one...
The skeptic look is my favorite response. The “What? WHY?” face combined with the subtle raised-eyebrow nuance of “Is your marriage okay?” and the skeptical “I’m glad I’m not you!” nod. I'll admit, this would probably be my response if I wasn't the one in this situation. And at points during this year, Daryl and I have both asked ourselves and each other the question: Are we crazy?
This question comes up even more now that we're coming to the apex of this separation. While we expected it to get easier the closer we got to being permanently reunited, it's actually gotten harder. On top of missing each other right now, there's the cumulative effect of missing one another over the past seven months, too. It's exhausting at times. Don't get me wrong, we're making it through okay, but it is hard. And it's been long. And the end will be a welcome sight.
It feels appropriate, somehow, that the most difficult season of our 9-month geographical separation falls during Lent. Lent always catches me a bit off guard. After the wonderful craziness of Christmas and the busy start of a new semester, I always look up mid-February and realize, "Oh my goodness, Ash Wednesday is... tomorrow!" And then I have a few moments of feeling like a bad Christian, which is tempered by the fact that I'm a Presbyterian and we don't really do as much Lent as other traditions. But we do some Lent. And after several years of adding in Lenten practices to my life for a season, I know the difficulty and joy that Lent brings. Discipline is hard. Giving up things is hard. But Jesus always manages to meet me in the midst of this season, and because of that I have grown to love Lent.
This is Central Park last February. Everything is hibernating, asleep, and cold. This is how I feel at the start of Lent (and during much of the Lenten season) every year. It's cold and dreary outside. I'm tired of my classes, weary of my job, cold and worn out and irritable. I am an Easter girl, not a Lenten one.
Yet one of the things I love about Lent is that it's all about human weakness. When we go to church on Ash Wednesday and have ashes smudged on our foreheads we are reminded by the minister, pastor, or priest to "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." We give up chocolate or alcohol or red meat and this makes us cranky and hungry and we suddenly realize that we are not as in control of our bodies as we would like to believe. Once during a Lenten season when I gave up baked goods (pre-gluten-free days, of course), I remember getting into a totally unnecessary fight with Daryl. This particular fight was all my fault, and after we had gone around in circles arguing for awhile, I finally climbed up into his lap, burst into tears, and exclaimed, "I just need a BROWNIE!!!" Human weakness, indeed
But the purpose of Lent isn't to remember how weak and crappy we are just so that we can properly feel miserable about ourselves. The purpose of Lent is to remind us that we need Jesus. Desperately. Completely. Fully and indescribably. We are dust. He is God. We are broken and small; he is mighty and compassionate.
A Wheaton professor of mine once remarked that the point of fasting during Lent is not to prove to ourselves how good and holy we are. It's to fail in our attempts and realize our utter weakness. We strive to be obedient to the Lord, and yet we are reduced to bundles of cravings after giving up something so small as one meal or one type of food. It's to remind us daily how much we need our Lord in all things, the small as well as the big.
Lent is dark and cold and often lonely. I chafe against the disciplines I am trying to instill in myself daily, the Scripture reading that I often put off until midnight, the Internet surfing I am trying to cut down upon (I haven't given up any food or drink items for Lent this year because I'm still learning how to give up gluten, and that's challenge enough). I am tired and worn and cranky. But Lent helps me remember, despite the busyness of my days and the noisiness of my life, that I am dust.
At the end of this season comes spring. And Easter. Glorious Easter. Where we remember that we are dust, but that we serve a God who created humanity out of the dust, who saves us from our brokenness, and who defeated the powers of sin and suffering that we struggle against each day. Daryl always half-teases me that I am too quick to run to Easter. This is true. I like happy and bright and bubbly and cheerful. I am an Easter girl, not a Lent girl. And because of this, I continue to strive to learn about Lent by walking the road of Lenten discipline. The sadness and stillness of meeting Jesus in Lent helps me be a better chaplain and pastor, a more compassionate minister of the Gospel, and a softer and gentler person. I am an Easter girl, but many people around me are Lenten people, and I have much to learn from them. Christ is risen, but Christ also suffered and died. Both are true. Both are important.
Yet I cannot help but look toward the tiny light at the end of the Lenten tunnel even now. Christ suffered and died, but this is not the end. At the end of this season comes spring. And Easter. And the beginning of daily life with Daryl once again. At long, long last.
Amen and amen.
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