I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I love Lent. It’s a mixture of a whole lot of reasons, from well-intentioned to selfish. I love that it’s 40 days that unites the universal Church in a collective growth in virtue and holiness and closeness to Jesus. I love being reminded to wait and watch and pray. I love having three themes to focus on—prayer, fasting, and almsgiving—with plenty of ways to commit to each. I love that confession in Lent feels especially efficacious,

It’s true. With the exception of outerwear and shoes and accessories, I wore just 10 items of clothing for the duration of Lent. Three pairs of pants and three dresses and four tops. And let me tell you: it was illuminating, and humbling, and liberating. I first stumbled upon the idea in this lovely blog, and it didn’t take much time or reflection for me to realize: Yes. This is it. This will be good. And good it most definitely was. My goal was to love Jesus more and to love

Even now, says the Lord, return to me with your whole heart, for I am gracious and merciful. Joel 2:12 Even now, March 9, 23 days into Lent. Even now, with your shirked resolutions and fading enthusiasm. Even now, at the end of the week, in your rut, with your longing and worry and wondering. When I heard these words at Mass, they came like a balm to my weary soul. My Lenten zeal having worn down considerably, I’ve been flagging. I went to sleep too late last night. I didn’t

Confession: I used to be a Lenten overachiever. For years I approached this penitential season with gusto, plotting the most thorough fasts I could, the ones I’d secretly draw great satisfaction from completing. And it’s not even that I’d do them to be seen. In fact, when people would ask what I was giving up for Lent, I’d say, “Telling people what I’m giving up for Lent.” But it’s not that I had the humility of that tax collector who wouldn’t even raise his eyes to heaven, o

It's the final stretch. The last mile of the marathon. The conclusion of this time of fasting, yearning, staying quiet. Holy Week is upon us. And, in all of my Lenten zeal, I want to somehow supercharge my Lenten resolutions, to make these days intense and hardcore, to reup my slackened devotions and come to a glorious end on Easter, triumphant and pleased. But if there's one thing I've learned these 40 days, it's that I often need to examine (and reexamine) my inclinations a

I just love Lent. I mean really love it. And I know, it’s easy to say that four days in. Get back to me in 40. But still, there’s just something I find marvelous about this season, what with its fasting and anticipation and potential for deep transformation. Yes, it’s risky, and yes, I’ve failed, but here’s what I find particularly significant about these sacred days: the little yes. We tend to think about Lent with a litany of no’s: no meat on Friday, no indulging, no Allelu

Lent is a risky time. It’s risky because it opens me up to failure, yes. Because I am weak under the lure of Facebook and sweets and my bad driving habits. Because I often set out with grand expectations, with a master plan, with a head marked with ashes and filled with hope at the thought of my expected detachment from the world. Of my transformed habits. Of my Catholic brownie points to come. (No actual brownies involved, obviously.) But the real risk of Lent? Making it abo

Lent was always my favorite time of year. Always, that is, until this year. I’ve been a complete and utter failure this Lent. And it’s gotten me wondering, what was it in the past that I loved about it so much? And why have I flopped so tremendously this time around? Here’s the thing: I used to be good at Lent. I stuck to my resolutions like it was my job. I slept on the floor on Good Friday. I turned my nose up with aplomb the sight of sweets. I avoided Facebook like the pla