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how to not prepare for lent

22 Comments

Yes, you read that right.

(And yes, I’m even aware that I split the infinitive. I broke my own grammatical pet peeve and did it on purpose.)

Lent starts tomorrow, and I could not be less prepared. No resolution carved in stone, no discipline established, no good intentions for prayer or fasting or almsgiving.

Sure, I’ve got a zillion ideas. Sugar purge. Facebook fast. Daily writing with Scripture. Creative donations to important causes.

But I can’t commit to anything. Why?

BECAUSE I CAN’T SLEEP.

My darling, beautiful, bouncing baby boy decided a few months ago to regress from his long-sleeping ways. Since Christmas, we’ve been up every three hours. Four if we’re lucky. Two if we’re not.

And everyone in this house is losing their minds.

Some days we can laugh about it. Some days I can drink enough caffeine to overcome it. But some dark days I do nothing but wallow in the exhaustion.

We’ve tried it all. And then we tried it again. And – parenting epiphany! – this child refuses to submit to our schedule, our demands, our desires.

Lack of sleep has affected every part of our lives: our work, our home, our relationships. After too many breaking points, we’ve finally come up with a new plan that we hope will work. (So please send prayers for this weekend’s launch of Finally Getting the Baby to Break Bad Habits and Stop Nursing All Night Without Crying So Loud He Wakes Up His Brother Next Door And Then We All Go Insane.)

But in the meantime, Lent has crept up to the doorstep and is gently knocking to come in. And I can do nothing but laugh and shake my head. This house? This family? You seriously want to come in here?

I have no time or energy to prepare for Lent this year. I don’t even have time to feel guilty about it.

So for the next forty days, all I can do is invite Lent into the chaos of our lives. And pray that God’s grace forgives my stumblings. And remember that God’s invitation – and my response – was present there all along.

Going about my daily work even when I’m dragging? That’s prayer.

Giving up the glorious sleep I love to feed a hungry baby? That’s fasting.

Investing my last bit of energy in my needy children? That’s almsgiving.

So come on in, Lent. Pull up a chair (you’ll have to kick the toys aside) and a cup of tea (you’ll need to wash that dirty mug).

We’re completely unprepared. But you’re always welcome.

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Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Chandra says

    21 February 2012 at 3:46 pm

    Please share what you try this weekend and if it works. Our little one is 4.5 months and only 3 or 4 times has she slept longer than 3 hours at a stretch at night. We would love to hear some things that work – we have turned to the No Cry Sleep Solution and The Sleep Lady’s Shuffle. Glad to know that we are not alone in this. Your family will be in my prayers this weekend.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      21 February 2012 at 3:51 pm

      Will do, Chandra. I thought of you the other night and wondered if you had found any better luck with your little one’s sleeping. We like the No Cry Sleep Solution too (especially since crying-it-out doesn’t work well with our small house + toddler sleeping in the room next door) but frankly, we too are getting desperate enough to try anything. Last night I read a hopeful statistic from a study of 52 different sleep training methods (who knew there were so many, yikes!) that showed almost every one could achieve the same results if applied consistently. That’s our problem – too often we switch gears in the middle of the night hoping something new will work. So consistency is the new name of our game. Prayers to you as well. It’s such a rough road when no one is sleeping.

      Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      27 February 2012 at 9:57 am

      Chandra, I had to check back in with you to tell you that we seem to be on a path that’s working, and maybe it can give you some hope, too! Our local La Leche League leader forwarded this article to me when I asked her for help, and I remembered reading it ago, thinking it sounded like a great, gentle approach to cutting out night nursing. This approach of cutting back to only nursing on one side during the “optimal” sleep hours of 11 pm – 6 am (give or take) has already made a huge change for us. T slept 5 hours straight last night! He seems to be getting the message that we’re gradually going to do less nursing and more sleeping at night, and we are all feeling better about this – more-rested and no crying it out. Check it out if you’re interested: http://drjaygordon.com/attachment/sleeppattern.html

      Reply
  2. Kate says

    21 February 2012 at 3:47 pm

    <3 <3 <3

    Amen!

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      21 February 2012 at 3:54 pm

      3 hearts for the Trinity. You make me smile, Kate!

      Reply
  3. Leanne says

    21 February 2012 at 3:51 pm

    Before I read to the end of your post, I was planning to write, “Those sacrifices you are making each day are praying, fasting, and almsgiving.” The Lord knows your heart! I pray for you and your family! I especially hope that sweet little one begins sleeping through the night!

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      21 February 2012 at 3:53 pm

      Thanks, Leanne! I loved your post on Lent the other day as well.

      Reply
  4. Kansas Mom says

    21 February 2012 at 4:08 pm

    My Lent last year was much like this. I didn’t even think of preparing anything until a friend posted a calendar. Which I prompted printed and used. That was our Lent. There’s always next year for the elaborate plans. In the meantime, I’ll be offering prayers for your baby to sleep well and soon!

    Reply
  5. Lizzy says

    21 February 2012 at 4:26 pm

    I jnow what you mean! I was just coming to the realization today that Ash Wednesday is this Wednesday… As in TOmorrow! So we will not be too prepared either. I was struggling for some creative ways to get Joe to understand the concept of lent! As we discussed Easter and lent today Joe told me he wanted “to be like Christ “. And while I know that he does t understand that I still figured a small victory for us! As for the sleeping I hear you. Gigi went from great to terrible then better than great and now is in good getting worse. But I think now is because she is teething perhaps. Either way I agree, it doesnt matter what you do staying consistent is the only way for it to work. As for crying it out, we worried it would wake the kids too but t didn’t. No matter what you decide on good luck! With Gigi we went thru the phase of letting her fuss but feeding her if she screamed. Which has mostly worked for us. Goodluck and keep me posted on how the little man is doing!

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      24 February 2012 at 4:50 pm

      I think Joe nailed it – being like Christ is the whole point of Lent! Smart kid! Those ND roommates are going to be so brilliant… 😉

      Reply
  6. Anita 'Woods' Fischer says

    21 February 2012 at 6:13 pm

    I will pray for you and your little ones – I remember those days very well. I find it interesting that there are so many methods out there to help babies sleep better. The old saying “sleeping like a baby” just isn’t true for many (or most) and I find their sleep patterns as cyclical as everything else in their lives. It isn’t all that helpful to say that these days will pass, but they do. I will say this (and I probably shouldn’t lest my pediatrician is around): When my youngest was 6 weeks old and I was going insane, I finally flipped her over on her stomach and got my first 4 hours of sleep – in a ROW! When she woke up, I felt guilty (kind of). When my first son was born, we were supposed to have them sleep on their tummies, but then by the time my youngest came along – the back it was! In the end, we all just try to do what is best to keep the peace. I will pray for peace for you this Lent. May the awakening of Spring bring all of you deep refreshing slumber.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      24 February 2012 at 4:53 pm

      Thank you, Anita! The flip to tummy sleeping worked wonders for our first, but hasn’t proven to work for #2 (yet). I agree that whatever can keep the peace is the way to go. We can’t beat ourselves up for that. And thank you for your prayers…I always think about what you wrote on the card at my baby shower, that the days are long but the years are short! Your pearl of wisdom has gotten me through many a long day!

      Reply
  7. Angela Castaldi Weitnauer says

    21 February 2012 at 6:44 pm

    Thank you, Laura. Beautifully written (split infinitive and all) and very helpful. I will pray for your family this lent. 🙂
    Angela

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      24 February 2012 at 4:53 pm

      Thank you, Angela! I appreciate your kind words – and I’ll take all the prayers we can get. 🙂

      Reply
  8. Carrie says

    22 February 2012 at 5:58 pm

    Just read a great reminder… we would be better to do NOTHING than to do something without it truly helping us to find God. The author’s point: to do NOTHING is counter-cultural and space creating in a world where we are afraid to do nothing. And as a Mom, it would probably be even HARDER and more difficult (damn near impossible!)… and yet, maybe possibly… simply beautiful.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      24 February 2012 at 4:56 pm

      I’ve been knocking this idea around in my head ever since you shared it, Carrie, and I think you’re right on. Forcing Lenten practices – or any kind of spiritual discipline – is deadening if we do it out of guilt or fear or feeling forced. What’s life-giving is sometimes to do nothing, as you say. To back up and give God space to move in our life. That can be terrifying, but also the most freeing.

      Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      2 March 2012 at 10:30 am

      Carrie – I came across this today and thought of your comment: http://blog.onbeing.org/post/18088234874/do-nothing-for-lent-and-be-grateful

      Reply
  9. Amy B says

    22 February 2012 at 11:33 pm

    Ugh! Sleeping problems are the worst! I will pray that your Easter resurrection will be sleep!:). Ok T-man, sleep is good! Of course we had to do the cry it out this time, and it worked for us. The big bro didn’t wake to the screaming thanks to the loud humidifier running in his room! (It also only took a couple nights. We have had relapses here and there, but have mostly moved past those awful nights.) I think you are right though, consistency is the key. Kids do so well with boundaries even at a young age. I bet this Lent will be a fruitful one for your family! Prayers to you all!

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      24 February 2012 at 4:57 pm

      Thank you for your prayers, Amy! And sharing your experience, too. I know that we have some great godparents on our side, so I hope that we will all experience an Easter season of glorious rest!

      Reply
  10. Kateri says

    24 February 2012 at 4:28 pm

    I think your honest, authentic Lent of simply living your reality in the midst of GOD (or vice-versa) will be one of your most meaningful yet! But regardless, my prayers are with you for reprieve from the chaos. I know all too well how excruciating that can be, and how it does affect each corner of your lives, as our 8 month old only in the last few weeks began sleeping and not feeding at night again (knock on wood!); she was sleeping well, but then took about a 3 month break from it to drive us all to the edge. My only advice: be on the same page as your partner, no matter what the latest plan, try white noise for your older son’s room in hopes it will help him sleep through the screaming, and hang in there…because even if he doesn’t start sleeping well again, it’ll only be a few years before you can send him to boarding school and get a good night’s sleep 🙂 But seriously, I’m praying for you all! And thanks for your wisdom, as usual.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      24 February 2012 at 4:59 pm

      Thanks, Kateri. If nothing else, these trying days of sleep struggles remind me how dependent we are on life’s necessities, how bodily we are! Which, like fasting from food or anything else, reminds me I have to depend on God to support my very life itself.

      Reply

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  1. i am such a good mom when my babies sleep « mothering spirit says:
    29 March 2012 at 2:20 pm

    […] back over the past few months when we did not sleep, I marvel that I survived. Sleep is essential for me. Some people can slide by with a few hours a […]

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I’m Laura Kelly Fanucci. Mother, writer, wonderer. This space is where I explore mothering through writing. It’s where I celebrate how God shows up in the chaos of raising children. It’s where I love to build community with readers like you. Read More…

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thismessygrace

Mother, writer, wonderer.
Seeker of God in chaos & life with kids.
Author of Everyday Sacrament & Grieving Together.
Glimpses of grace & gratitude.

Instagram post 2196944524877817946_1468989992 Beauty from brokenness.

At the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, there’s a mosaic tucked back in concourse F, hidden by the bathrooms. I notice it now because it’s the work of a kindred spirit.

A grieving mother.

By chance I read her story when the mosaic was installed. How her second child was stillborn and her world shattered and after months of wondering how on earth to create again, butterflies became a symbol of hope rising from ashes.

I remember her whenever I pass these restrooms, usually dragging a small child of my own behind me before a flight. Today I walked in with a pregnant belly, looking for all the world like a simple story: woman having baby.

My story is not simple. Neither is hers.

We are among you, the bereaved. Walking by you every day. Daring to keep going instead of giving up. Creating beauty from brokenness. 
You might miss it. We learn not to shout. But when we get space to share our stories, strange and sparkling beauty can be found.

Mary Shelley wrote her masterpiece Frankenstein while she was grieving the death of her baby. Prince had an infant son who lived only a few days. I collect these stories now—the artists who created out of their pain.

When something is shattered—a bone, a bowl, a dream—it can never be put back together in exactly the same way again. Cracks, jagged edges, trauma’s hard memory persists.

But an artist catches the glint of hope under the rubble and refuses to let destruction have the final word. Every creation is a mosaic, built from brokenness.

MSP Airport, gate F4. Check it out next time you’re here.

Thank you, @josielewisart 🦋
Instagram post 2195334718010341825_1468989992 You don’t have to apologize for staying in the slow lane.

Took two snowy hours creeping to the airport before dawn to remember this truth. Impatient trucks on my tail, angry red lights for miles.

Feel free to pass, as I fought off the urge of irritation at their too-close-for-comfort. I’m staying right here. Slow and safe.

Call it the Advent lane. The choice to slow down when the world speeds up.

Liturgical living isn’t about doing more, adding extras or achieving. It’s often about doing less. Living at a slower, sacred pace. Letting the world’s frenzy pass you by. Listening in the quiet for the still, small voice of God.

And here’s the secret you learn after years and years: it’s delicious, this discipline of living differently.

You gain time where others lose it: a full season of Christmas instead of one fleeting day. You feel time where others forget it: the weight of weeks before Easter. You notice how nature lives by the same cycles: waxing and waning, dying and rising.

Years ago our pastor preached about stopping at yellow lights as an Advent practice. One simple act, a few times a day, to remind you to wait.

Wait.

Slow down. Take a moment to breathe. Slip back into the living pace where you are no more important or urgent than anyone around you.

In a culture obsessed with success, speed, and endless upward mobility, it can seem crazy to take the slow lane—or the off ramp.

But you can stay here, slow and steady. Peace was never found by speeding up.
Instagram post 2192445717293184648_1468989992 “What if God were helpless?” Her question shook me.

We had sat together for an hour, wrestling with the biggest, hardest questions—suffering and death and grief and trust. But even from where she sat in her rocking chair, hair white with wisdom, eyes searching up at the ceiling for answers that don’t exist, her words shook me.

No, I wanted to leap to protest. God has to be Helper, not helpless. Powerful, not powerless.

Otherwise everything unravels, right? Otherwise what is solid ground? Otherwise who can I trust?

But I caught my own words. It’s Advent, after all. What we celebrate at Christmas is exactly this: God becoming helpless.

A newborn baby: nothing more helpless among us. Born into poverty. Vulnerable among animals. Away from his community. Unable to walk or talk or feed himself. Helplessness Incarnate.

And this was what God chose, the ultimate Power that set the stars spinning. Incarnation was the vulnerable, unexpected, scandalous, unbelievable way that Love took flesh and came to stumble in dirt beside us.

What if God were helpless?

What if it’s not a hypothetical question, but a theological paradox? What does it mean for my life?

It shakes me, as it should.

If you have understood, wrote Augustine, what you have understood is not God.

Advent is not a simple season, chocolate calendars and Christmas countdowns.

This is a time to remember that Jesus’ story is radical, upsetting every neat category and tidy expectation.

It would be easier if God stayed powerful: distant, removed, almighty. The shock is that Jesus becomes powerless, too: intimate, humble, among-us.

What if God were helpless? What would it mean for my life, my faith, my need for surety and solid foundation?

If God can be both—Helper and Helpless—what else might turn upside down? What grace might be waiting in the wreckage of our expectations?
Instagram post 2191564285632887396_1468989992 Anna Quindlen wrote that hidden within each of her grown children is the baby they once were, like the toy duck in the bathroom soap.

I feel the same way about infertility.

Yesterday I curved my sore back over the baby huddled inside, bent and swayed by the bathroom sink, seeking any relief. Nausea, sciatica, normal aches and pains—all of it daily burden, barely worth mentioning after all these years.

But I felt her rise up within me, the one who wanted Exactly This. All of This. Nothing But This.

She is the me inside me, the former and forever.

I see her in crowds, the one in ten walking brave each day through a world that flaunts what she wants (as the world does when we are wanting, filling our longing view with happy couples or pregnant bellies or warm homes or good jobs while we lust for the same). I carry her with me as I have carried each child, the ones whose hands I held and the ones I had to let go.

She taught me what it meant to crave control and to discover that I have none. She gave me the language of lament and the songs of sorrow.

I left her behind eleven years ago, on a cold winter morning like today, when a thin plastic test blurred to two lines for the first time.

I burst through the bathroom door as someone new, someone pregnant, someone’s mother.

I have never been the same.

But she is still me, and I am still her. Every day she prays me back to the place of all who are still waiting and weeping.

I could never call infertility a gift. But her companionship is.

When she whispers, it is louder than any stranger’s sneer, the judgement heaped upon four kids running ahead and a waddling mother trailing behind.

This, she reminds me.

You wanted exactly This.
Instagram post 2191077565846125357_1468989992 Advent is waiting to be discovered.

By those of us who have lived it for a lifetime. By those of us who have found it brand new.

Advent is quiet and calm when the world is anything but.

For those of us who delight in stillness and silence. For those of us who struggle to slow down.

Advent is the antidote we seek.

For those of us who crave radical challenge. For those of us who love ancient comfort.

Advent is never what we expect and always what we need.

The shortest season for the longest wait.

The perfect paradox for the God of surprises.

Advent is already the gift.

You can dip into this current any time, running strong and steady beneath the chaos of December above.

Any Advent moment will bring you peace and joy, which is already Love Incarnate, which is already Emmanuel, which is God among us.

A miracle. Don’t miss it.
Instagram post 2186625723368059660_1468989992 When I was pregnant with the twins, a strange thing happened.

As we started to share the news—in the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving—people reacted in a way I never expected.

Instead of raising eyebrows or laughing out loud, they would get this wistful look in their eyes, offer a longing “oh...” and pronounce the strangest blessing. “Your holidays are going to be so wonderful.” I thought they were insane. I could not understand. What on earth did Thanksgiving have to do with it? Didn’t they see that all my plans had been dumped in a blender and set to Purée? That I never wanted twins, or five children under six, or any of the current complications life was hurling my way?

But over and over, friends and strangers looked at me with wistful, longing faces, saying so many times I lost count in my bewilderment:

Your holidays will be so wonderful.

Imagine all of them around the table.

You’re going to have so much fun when they’re all at home.

I am not in the habit of judging family size. Infertility, loss, first-hand heartache of the complexities and complications of childbearing have ripped back the stories beneath the surface. I know there are a thousand reasons why one might choose (or not) to have any number of children—or none at all.

But what I learned from countless unexpected reactions to my own unexpected news was this surprise. Sometimes we see only scarcity or overload where others are able to see fullness.

You might think your life is too much or not enough. But outside perspectives catch angles you can’t glimpse from where you stand. Goodness might hide where you see only hard.

Now I remember those voices every Thanksgiving. In years when holidays felt painfully lacking and in years when they brim to bursting, I remind myself how many saw fullness I couldn’t see.

Whether dreaming of the future or longing for the past—from countless friends who whispered they wanted one more or the stranger who told me she would have had ten if she could have had one—what they taught me was the beauty of here and now. The goodness before my eyes, even if it was never what I would have chosen.

We believe we see our whole story. Thank God we don’t.
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