Sojourning in a Lent time

Always a meaningful time of year for me, the forty days of Lent are a period in which to experience the starless night that comes before the Easter dawn. Fasting provides an impetus to identify and forgo distracting habits in favor of meditation on the divine, to mirror the sacrifice Christ embodied on the cross. Lenten fasting is beyond the level of a New Year’s resolution; temporarily denying a physical desire symbolizes our yearning for the redemption of the world. It exacts flesh from flesh, the very nature of the thing. As Christ set his face toward Jerusalem, we too look forward to the moment of salvation. We wait. We wait.

Now, during our first Lent in Haiti, during such a defined period in my life (how often do we see 3 years so clearly?), I find myself thinking about the nature of sacrifice. What does one ever hope to get out of voluntary sacrifice? Pride in being able to say, I did it? A heightened appreciation for what is later restored? I’m torn between saying that I haven’t sacrificed anything in coming to Haiti (living here is much easier than I thought it would be; all our basic needs are met, I go through most days with an unflappable sense of physical security, and we have the opportunity to do something wildly interesting) and in voicing my loneliness, the personal sacrifice of giving up ready friends, visits with family, and the security of a familiar home culture. The things I’m missing cut close.

Somewhere in my soul is the conviction that sacrifice will teach me something I couldn’t learn otherwise, the hope that pushing through temporary discomfort will make me a stronger person. Sacrifice in search of the unexpected, a growth period that will allow me to shoot off in a new direction. Just as rules make a game possible, sacrifice is essential to abundance. I choose to see Lent as time given with expectation, balancing now and soon. Not lightly present. Borrowed time.