In the desert

Last night at Stations of the Cross, I mourned the end of Lent. I need more time! I am not done with the work yet. Forty days have not been enough to break habits developed over years of palliating the hunger of dissatisfaction. Candy, wine, meat, good coffee - all of these physical crutches have been relatively easy to set aside.  Tonight is the great Vigil, but I am not yet tempted by the bags of candy in my closet or the champagne for tomorrow's brunch. My real struggle has been detaching. I have been unable during this Lent to disconnect from all the distractions.

On the positive side, this is one of the few years we have made it to almost every Friday stations. Our parish serves a soup supper afterwards, so the social event draws the kids, who crave the warm-and-ready macaroni and cheese and lipstaining red fruit punch. We lingered over brothy concoctions and slices of cheap French bread while talking with friends from church or getting to know some of the old folks, who also come for the free dinner.  One night a man who might have been homeless but had stories of his family from the area, joined us and complained about how the Protestant church where he was baptized locked him out.  He asked about the meaning of Lent, praised the soup, a Thai flavored broth that night, and headed out into the night without asking for five bucks for the bus.

The fellowship kept the kids from complaining about spending Friday nights at church. Each week, the Church set out a different pamphlet of prayers for the devotion. This variety provided fodder for reflection on these reflections. Sometimes they were written in first person, as if Jesus were narrating his journey. Others were written as a letter to Jesus. I prefer the ones that ask questions, a type of examen, that goad me into a recognition of the ways I am like Simon, having to be asked, or forced, to help someone in need.  It is easy enough to sign up to bring meals to the sick or new mothers, but I find plenty of excuses to avoid the dirty work of serving drug addicts on the street or even the real denial of pleasures and pastimes or the ability to give until it hurts. Writing a check, dropping cash in the basket, picking and choosing who gets what I have to give are all too easy. I think about the command to help the widow and the orphan, and think, if we have space why don't we open our house to someone? I admire a friend who does foster care, but I have never even called for information from our local organization. I haven't even walked the few blocks to check on my old lady friend lately.

If I have the willpower to deny myself sugar and drinks, why don't I have the strength to deny myself the mind-numbing activity of reading the internet, be it social media or "news?" How many hours have I wasted reading online or researching options for whatever it may be? I failed miserably in my resolution to turn off the computer at 10 in order to read and pray before bed. And while I limited social media connection, I certainly didn't succeed in fasting from it, only in coming to see how little miss when I don’t read it. It is just a handy crutch to fill an empty moment. But I turned to its noise and distraction plenty. And how much energy have I wasted on worrying? This week's worries were news of our oldest son's knee injury, indecision about pre-school for next year, a house option that fell through, and plans for spring break, then Easter, then Confirmation, then graduation. All good things to think about, but I toil over decisions.

What do these weaknesses reveal? A lack of trust? An inability to turn away from entertainment and vanity? An inability to detach from the world and surrender my will? I want to live a life of faith, but am not willing, capable, to do so radically.

Late on Holy Thursday, we left the Altar of Repose in silence. Our eleven year old wanted to stay. As we left, she started to cry. "Why did they have to do that to him?" she cried. Early I had been frustrated because it seemed like none of the kids were really paying attention at church. But she had heard and entered into the narrative in a deep way. I wanted to run back into the church and sit longer with her in adoration. But we had to go forth.

Last weekend we went to the desert to camp for spring break. This destination was no one's first choice. I wanted to make the drive to the canyons of Utah, but no one wanted to be in the car for 8 or 10 hours, and I hadn't found anyplace with space available at the last minute. The kids wanted to see the cousins (which we did for the weekend, but they had school.) My husband suggested Big Bear Lake, where people go to ski, but cottages in our price range were booked, and it was going to be 19 degrees - too cold for camping. The desert was the only place with space available for last minute campers. At this location,  you can camp basically anywhere, but we found a spot at a developed campground because reluctant campers at least want toilets.

This time of year the desert comes to life with blooms. But limited rainfall this winter meant that the show that sometimes takes place was minimal. From the road the terrain looks sandy, brown and rocky, spotted with cactus and agave. Dry, dry, dry. How anything green survives is a mystery.

But once you exit the car and get out and walk on a trail, the little details spring into focus.  Succulents sprout from dirt caught between rocks. The ocotillo were waving red flags. The barrel cacti sprouted yellow flowers. Hummingbird bush provided a weak showing of red trumpet shaped flowers.  Lizards darted over and under the boulders. At the visitor center, where water was provided, the brittle bush had bright yellow daisy shaped flowers and a deep purple bloom covered another shrub. A hike to a slot canyon revealed a secret passage carved by water. The passage was completely hidden from the road. Did some desperado discover it?  The desert is home to people who exist off the grid in RVs and shacks. People who sculpt with scrap metal and scruffy jeep aficionados, most with stickers about being a veteran, like the guys who told us we were heading off in the wrong direction, off into the nowhere, on a hike. We turned back and eventually found the trail to an ancient settlement, perhaps just a camp for a group of Native Americans traveling to more hospitable land.

The kids climbed boulders and set up housekeeping at the camp. They cradled hot cocoa around the fire. Again, I was reminded that sometimes forced fun can turn into real peace, once the distractions and better options elsewhere are eliminated, and here is the only space left to inhabit.

But it is a lonely space. The night sky is wide, populated by thousands of stars, some dimmed by a bright moon.  Many people come to the desert just to look at the night sky.  But my mind has never grasped a map of the stars. Periodic attention to astronomy hasn't established more than a rudimentary recognition of familiar constellations. Even the plants I can only name by finding a helpful trail guide.  How much there is we don't know.  How many places remain hidden.  

No wonder Jesus went to the desert to pray. It's a vast space, seemingly empty but filled with unlimited details, a place most people avoid. But God left his fingerprints everywhere here in the design of these tenacious survivors. But even without crowds, without the world pressing in wanting more, Christ experienced temptations. There is no place to hide from the reality of the restless human soul.

I long for Lent to be a time of spiritual growth, a time to flower in grace and self-control, a springtime of the soul, when I can focus on and show forth the desire for God, instead of losing my attention to a thousand demands. Instead, my soul remains a dry place, a rocky soil. But here and there, like the moment during the Stations, when I let my eyes wander around the sanctuary and I see these people I am growing to know, people who are all seeking water in the desert, who are all following the way of the cross, their voices united in the Stabat Mater, a bit off key, a bit out of syncopation, a spring of love for all these imperfect souls bursts forth, washing away the discouragement. We all gather with our weaknesses to grasp at His cloak in hopes of being healed.

And tomorrow we will celebrate that healing. Although I wish for more time to uproot these sinful tendencies, I look forward to the Gloria, to ringing bells with my neighbors, knowing that my family far away will be celebrating also, united in the joy of the season. And that joy surpasses the regret, pulls us out of the desert into the extravagant beauty of spring, new life, and redemption. 

Hoppy Easter, Everybody