When we fast, we should wash our faces and smile. It is part of the gift of our abstinence. Learning how to offer one’s Lenten fast is an ongoing lesson that must be relearned almost every time we encounter resistance or struggle in our sacrifice. Somehow, we forget the purpose of self denial, of willful hope, of praying in the midst of our trials. Except when we engage in deliberate hope, a defiance born of faith and trust in the crucified Jesus. Those moments when we turn suffering and fear into a prayer and an offering, these are the moments when our hearts mirror Christs’ and reflect outward to others, the light of the world.
In my own life, my family provided me with an example that has stayed with me ever since.
In 2000, my father received word he’d need open heart surgery. My brother and I flew down from Baltimore to be with my mother, sister and brother but we would not arrive until after the surgery took place. Waiting in pre-op, my mother stood flanked by two of her children as nurses and the surgeon team prepared, tears falling without ceasing. To cheer her up, my father began singing “The Wild Rover,” a song he’d sung to her for years, starting with their courtship.
My sister and brother joined in, and at the chorus, so did some of the nurses, and the anesthesiologist, and the IV nurse, and the chorus built. By the time they got to the final verse about pardoning the prodigal son, the operating room swelled with throaty voices belting out, “And it’s No, Naye, Never. No Naye Never, No More!!!” and the surgery went on without a hitch. I thought of Saint Paul singing in the jail, and of Saint Maximilian Kobe, singing and praying underground in the prison where he would die at Auschwitz. If they could sing, if my dad could sing before being cut open, then we can too. Supernatural grace is there, being offered to us for times such as these.
The story rests in my heart, singing whenever things get so dark or scary, reminding me that the way out of the darkness is both to seek the light and be it for others. Christ invites us to be luminous mysteries for others by how we love.
Lent is getting long. I have tremors still from last week’s adventure. It’s made thinking, writing, doing hard. But I remember the song and the story and remind myself, this is when we are called to sing the most.
So as we look at all the battles around us, all the fires which threaten to snuff out hope and joy, we should join in the choir invisible, with our voices audible and sing. Keep walking into the dessert, and keep singing of the glory of our crucified Lord.
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