I take very seriously the season of Lent. A lot of people, upon learning this about me, retort (seriously, they retort) that Lent is a Catholic thing. Nay, I tell you. It's catholic, as in universally Christian, as the lower-case c in "catholic" denotes. I grew up celebrating this season with my family. I don't remember exactly whether the current pastor at church pushed it one Sunday or if my older sisters just decided to do it, but I got it into my head before I turned 7 or so that I am a practicer of Lent. Every year, the Sunday before Lent began a three-day contemplation over what item of comfort or lust or entertainment to give up. We certainly weren't going to fast. We are a family that likes to eat too much, to be honest. Usually, when we were younger, we gave up chocolate, making the arrival of the oh-so-Christian Easter Bunny all the more salient. As I grew older, I took it a little more seriously. I gave up tv or something else. In college, I got pretty intense (who doesn't?) and really stepped it up religiously-speaking by once giving up instant messenger and, junior year, giving up carbs.
It wasn't until after college that I heard folks talking about taking on a practice for Lent, rather than giving up something: writing a note to someone, praying for someone different each day, or some other sort of way of sacrificing your own form of selfishness.
This year, I find myself pudgy beyond comfort and cannot bear the idea of growing any bigger. I really am angry with myself for not losing weight when I have every reason in the world to be in great shape: a great neighborhood to walk in - and, indeed, a dog to walk in it!, a free gym to use a work, stairs in my house, music to dance to, a campus to walk in, coaching cheerleading, a house to keep clean, etc. I find that once I start to lose any weight, I cave in to my old behavior of saying, "Oh, my clothes are fitting better, so I can go ahead and eat that candy or drink that wine." Enough. I owe it to myself mentally and physically to be sacrificial enough to stave off lapsing yet again. Yes, it's selfish to focus on my own temple during Lent. I fully admit it. What am I giving up? I'm giving up comfort: no bread, no pasta, nothing that was created using flour, eggs, and butter - so that means cookies, too. I'm giving up sedatives, i.e., alcohol. That's going to be MUCH harder than bread/pasta/cookies. I don't think I'm an alkie or anything, but I do like to unwind on the weekends, and I find that helps. Plus, I enjoy it, so giving it up means also sacrificing something that brings me pleasure. If it means I shed I few pounds in the next 38 days, so be it. I must be strong.
So you're maybe wondering why I titled this blog about old hymns and if I am going to talk about them. Well, here ya are. There have been a few hymns that have been stuck on repeat in my mind that I grew up singing at my little bitty church in South Carolina. They are Oldies but Goodies. One is called "Sweet Hour of Prayer" and it celebrates the consolation we find while gathered for worship: it "calls us from a world a prayer" and, "in seasons of distress and grief/ My soul has often found relief" at church. The other song, "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" has been on my mind more so, because it describes the "privilege to carry everything to God in prayer" because you "will find a solace there." Both of these hymns I learned as elderly Mimi Searight plunked on the "downstairs" piano (the "upstairs" piano was in our sanctuary, which was, not surprisingly, upstairs). I didn't really think about them much when I was younger, but instead I focused more on singing them well. Now I take them in cerebrally - in fact, they seem to be attacking me. They came out of nowhere! That's the amazing thing about God. There's just no time to grow complacent in my faith, and the practices of attending church and prayer should be done with gusto and indeed with a sense of gratitude for their availability as tools to grow in relationship with God. The ideas in these songs, and others I learned in those formative years, are the spine of my faith. They comfort me when I wake at night. They sing themselves in my minds ear during worship. They remind me of how utterly simple belief is as a concept and how the promises of God are so good they can't be ignored or postponed.
It's with these thoughts I enter into Lent, yet again, with a sobered mind and a soul full of hope. I pray that God grants me eyes to see the rich blessings of this world and the chances that my hands need to take up God's work for me. May I hear the call when I am summoned. May I express with joy, with my utterly small-yet-large life, how grateful I am that I am called a child of God!
It wasn't until after college that I heard folks talking about taking on a practice for Lent, rather than giving up something: writing a note to someone, praying for someone different each day, or some other sort of way of sacrificing your own form of selfishness.
This year, I find myself pudgy beyond comfort and cannot bear the idea of growing any bigger. I really am angry with myself for not losing weight when I have every reason in the world to be in great shape: a great neighborhood to walk in - and, indeed, a dog to walk in it!, a free gym to use a work, stairs in my house, music to dance to, a campus to walk in, coaching cheerleading, a house to keep clean, etc. I find that once I start to lose any weight, I cave in to my old behavior of saying, "Oh, my clothes are fitting better, so I can go ahead and eat that candy or drink that wine." Enough. I owe it to myself mentally and physically to be sacrificial enough to stave off lapsing yet again. Yes, it's selfish to focus on my own temple during Lent. I fully admit it. What am I giving up? I'm giving up comfort: no bread, no pasta, nothing that was created using flour, eggs, and butter - so that means cookies, too. I'm giving up sedatives, i.e., alcohol. That's going to be MUCH harder than bread/pasta/cookies. I don't think I'm an alkie or anything, but I do like to unwind on the weekends, and I find that helps. Plus, I enjoy it, so giving it up means also sacrificing something that brings me pleasure. If it means I shed I few pounds in the next 38 days, so be it. I must be strong.
So you're maybe wondering why I titled this blog about old hymns and if I am going to talk about them. Well, here ya are. There have been a few hymns that have been stuck on repeat in my mind that I grew up singing at my little bitty church in South Carolina. They are Oldies but Goodies. One is called "Sweet Hour of Prayer" and it celebrates the consolation we find while gathered for worship: it "calls us from a world a prayer" and, "in seasons of distress and grief/ My soul has often found relief" at church. The other song, "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" has been on my mind more so, because it describes the "privilege to carry everything to God in prayer" because you "will find a solace there." Both of these hymns I learned as elderly Mimi Searight plunked on the "downstairs" piano (the "upstairs" piano was in our sanctuary, which was, not surprisingly, upstairs). I didn't really think about them much when I was younger, but instead I focused more on singing them well. Now I take them in cerebrally - in fact, they seem to be attacking me. They came out of nowhere! That's the amazing thing about God. There's just no time to grow complacent in my faith, and the practices of attending church and prayer should be done with gusto and indeed with a sense of gratitude for their availability as tools to grow in relationship with God. The ideas in these songs, and others I learned in those formative years, are the spine of my faith. They comfort me when I wake at night. They sing themselves in my minds ear during worship. They remind me of how utterly simple belief is as a concept and how the promises of God are so good they can't be ignored or postponed.
It's with these thoughts I enter into Lent, yet again, with a sobered mind and a soul full of hope. I pray that God grants me eyes to see the rich blessings of this world and the chances that my hands need to take up God's work for me. May I hear the call when I am summoned. May I express with joy, with my utterly small-yet-large life, how grateful I am that I am called a child of God!
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