It was supposed to start with Ash Wednesday, my quitting.
I just honestly didn’t know what it was I would quit.
See, I think the last time I fasted for Lent, it was from coffee, but I wound up feeling so much better physically that there was no sense of sacrifice. I’d only benefited from the process in such a way that it left me feeling more remorseful than clarified, and so I was pretty sure the practice just wasn’t for me, and the years have passed, and my observance of the season has become a lesser and lesser thing.
I can’t remember if last year I even remembered the start of Lent.
There have probably been other little things iggling at my conscience, but it was after watching that one episode, at the very second that I thought, “who wrote this?” when I heard myself asking it with an air of elite-est ownership, as if I were the only person on the planet who knew anything at all about this kind of suffering or that or whatever ... that I knew. I’ve turned way too deeply inward.
I’ve wallowed in this for three days now, trying to write every sentence perfectly.
I want to make sense.
I want to make a difference.
I want to do no harm.
I want to be different.
Pope Francis wrote a letter.
He told me to quit the indifference.
The rest is personal.3
For at least a season.
1 You know, if those two weren’t friends with each other ~ and I don’t know that they wouldn’t be ~ I do know, at the very least, the pope would wash the bad detective’s feet.
2 It ain't "ended" till He says it's ended.
3. Epitome of sentence with which I've striven. It hardly makes sense in context. But I relinquish it now.