I haven’t always fasted something for Lent.
Though I have known and loved Jesus since the age of 13, I grew up in a church community where neither subtracting nor adding things to my life for this season was an emphasized “thing.”
So although there have been years in my adulthood where I fasted chocolate or sweets or social media or television in order to grow closer to the character of Christ in those days leading up to Easter, I never consistently participated in a yearly Lenten fast that would require me to forego anything for 46 days of my life.
(Full Confession 1 — until yesterday, I didn’t realize Sundays didn’t count in the fast and Lent was actually 46, not 40, straight days , so I should clearly not be trusted in any and all things Lent.
Full Confession Number 2 — in our active duty military lives, my sweet soldier was gone nearly more Lenten seasons than he was home, so most of the time, I pretty much just pretended like I was fasting a husband for Lent and called that good enough. Note to military families: If you want to make this sound more holy, you can simply tell your friends you are fasting sexual intimacy, fasting secondary adult assistance or fasting good old-fashioned sanity. Any of the above are applicable when your soldier is overseas in this season.)
But now that we have entered the civilian world, our life seems cushier, our sacrifices, fewer. With a man at home for both breakfast and dinner and no unexpected business calls that take him off the continent or put his very existence in danger for days, weeks or months at a time, how we have so quickly settled into a life that, comparatively, doesn’t seem to ask very much of us at all.
And how quickly our eyes have turned from service and sacrifice to OURSELVES.
Our own comfort.
Our own convenience.
Our own calendar … managed by this crazy recovering control freak.
Which is why this Lenten season, from our place of undeserved post-military abundance and in a world that can so quickly become all about us, I felt it more important and urgent than ever to participate in a Lenten fast.
To intentionally surrender something we, in our place of extravagance compared to 98 percent of the world, take for granted to grow closer to the Savior who sacrificed it all.
I brainstormed meaningful things I could relinquish in this six weeks leading to the greatest sacrifice of all time — things as critical to this 4 a.m. riser as coffee (Super-Spouse’s 2021 Lenten fast of choice), things as hard for this hot mess to forego as hot showers.
I considered giving up my bed, my blog, my meat and my sweets, even the yoga pants that I don nearly every day of my quarantined life, and just as I thought I’d found something that would interrupt my daily routine and regularly point me back to the sacrifice of the cross, I’d feel unsettled, like it just wasn’t quite what God wanted to use to draw me closer to Him in this season. (He knows that this list-making block checker takes things meant to strengthen relationship and transforms them into rules that feel more like “religion” way too fast.)
And that’s when He placed on my heart something I take for granted every day but that one member of my family can’t afford to.
Something that would actually impact the minute-by-minute operation of this multi-tasker’s everyday life and point me back to Him every time I showered or shaved or texted or typed or cooked or cleaned or went about ALL the things I take for granted in my fairly easy daily life.
Something that would deepen my need for Him and push me to depend more on Him, all while giving me a greater compassion and understanding for one sweet superhero who was entrusted to me BY Him.
The use of my right hand.
The same hand Superman sports with one missing bone and one missing finger every. Single. Day.
So yesterday morning, I shared with the boys (and the co-op kids, who then asked if I had actually CUT OFF my hand) what God put on my heart to surrender for Lent.
After asking Superman if it was okay if I, too, sported a “Superman hand” for the next six weeks, this sparkly superhero smirked, then smiled, then took an Ace bandage in his own Superman hand and gently used it to bind up mine.
He wrapped up my fingers, took away use of my opposable thumb and created for me a replica of what it’s like to live without the full use of one hand.
And then he smiled and, as I struggled to open jars and turn keys and brush teeth and fold laundry, giggled at me, grabbed a pair of socks and, as he showed me how to fold them over with one hand, softly said, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll teach you.”
Thank you, sweet boy. Between you and Jesus, I think I have a lot to learn this Lent.
#theblogposthattookallashwednesdaytotypewithonehand #specialneedsarejustsuperpowersindisguise
