Lent 2: On Fasting

Although I don't often look at it this way, my life right now is pretty sacrificial.  Food literally is taken out of my hands, off my plate, and eaten by another, more deserving person.  The book I sit down to read is pulled from my hands and I am commanded to stand and do the "Tooty-tock" dance, again.  I am awakened most mornings by insistent little people who move my body to better accommodate their cuddling needs, who stick their dirty diapers in my face to emphasize how urgent my presence is needed downstairs.  So when a preacher starts talking about fasting, about sacrificing, I find myself resisting.  "Not another sacrifice!" I mentally whine.  And maybe I'm highly evolved and have a perfect balance in my attitudes about food (or, quite possibly, I am like a 3 year old when it comes to denying myself in this way), but I've never been able to successfully fast in the traditional sense.  One year, for Lent, I gave up ice cream.  So in the evenings, instead of scooping a delicious frozen treat, I'd eat six cookies.

From my Protestant understanding of the Lenten season, the purpose of fasting is to create more time with God, to spend the time one would normally be eating (insert chosen fast item here) in prayer and meditation.  So substituting another dessert doesn't really accomplish that.  This year, I went outside the box a little.  What is something that I can give up that won't stress me out more, but will instead give me a chance to turn to God, to repent and reflect on who He wants me to be.  The morning of Ash Wednesday was not a good one.  James decided he didn't want to go to school, refused to put on his shoes and socks and wouldn't even let me do it.  He screamed when we headed down to the car, grabbing the doorway as the other kids climbed into their seats without a fuss.  I had to drag him into his seat, force him to put on his seatbelt, and placed his shoes, socks, and coat next to him.  When we pulled up to the school, his teacher met us at the car (as usual), and I explained the situation.  I was sweating, frustrated, no longer interested in being kind.  Together, we talked him into finishing getting ready and getting out of the car.  She promised him an easy morning, an early trip to the cafeteria to get some breakfast, the iPad during free time.  I drove away, off to the dentist, and I realized that there is something selfish that I do quite often: I lose my temper with my kids.  I reach the end of my patience (to be honest, not a very deep well), and I yell.  I slam doors.  I have been known to throw a toy to another room, to lift heavy furniture and heave it into the yard, to stomp my feet and pound the table.  And I don't just lose control; I lose my kids.  After every outburst, it takes a while to calm down, to get to a point where I can be the loving mom I want so badly to be.  When I scream at the boys to CALM DOWN, STOP FIGHTING, BE QUIET, they scream back.  Sometimes they cry.  In other words, my temper affects everyone.

What if I didn't do that? I wondered as the dentist scraped my teeth.  What if, instead of raising my voice, I raised my hands and begged for God to come, be part of this moment?  What if I handed over frustration and asked for peace?  The first thought was, I can't do it.  How could I possibly last six weeks?  The second thought was, take it one day at a time.  One moment at a time.  If you yell on Tuesday night, start over fresh Wednesday morning.  And the third thought: Don't try to replace anger with food.  Don't rush to Wendy's for chili cheese fries every time you bite down on your temper.  And so I began.  I found many opportunities to pray, to take deep breaths, count to ten, walk away over the past week (thanks kids!).  I also made mistakes.  I didn't catch the anger swell and yelled "MICHAEL!" then clamped a hand over my mouth, took my breaths, said a prayer, and finished, "Please use your inside voice."  Sunday was the hardest day, because our Girl just pressed all the buttons over and over, and I didn't do my breaths.  I was impatient and didn't feel like counting to ten.  I was short and I was loud and I regretted it.

One of my greatest hopes is that my children will someday become aware of God, that they will come face to face with Him, and they will say, "Oh, we know you!  We saw you in our mom."  And one of my fears is that I will obscure God from them, that when they see a church or a cross or a Bible, they will remember a woman who listened to sermons on her iPod and then yelled at them to be quiet, who took them to church but didn't love them the right way.  And so I hope that this exercise, this Lenten sacrifice, helps me to accomplish the former, not the latter.  On those days when they are losing their cool and crying and hurting, I want to be a calming presence, a soothing reminder that there is a source beyond ourselves that gives us strength when ours is gone.