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Lent was never the season that won a popularity contest with me. I thought of it as a time of deep purple when Christians should focus on sacrifices, remembering that we are made of dust… and on and on. It was tolerable, though, because it was a preparation for the wonderful event of Easter, the celebration of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead.

In contrast, the name “Easter” had a light, mysterious tone to it. The word comes from the Germanic “Eostre,” meaning the dawn of a new day, and it was chosen by the early Christians who saw the rising light of a new day as a symbol of Jesus rising from the dead. The word itself was a tremendous expression of hope—that God had created a world of freedom, that people on this earth can aspire to “escape” and “resurrect,” finding new, free lives.

But oh, the trials and pains along the way—and that’s where Lent came in. There is no rebirth without pain, no resurrection—no Easter—without first the trauma of death.

That may sound dramatic, but whose life is spent without a lot of mourning? Consider the child felled by an illness; the innocent killed in political holocausts and bloody wars; the parent degenerating into senility; the depression at a discomforting passage in life; the loss of a job; the break-up of a relationship; the drying up of faith; the death of ideals, innocence, of hopes and dreams.

Why does it have to be this way? Why do we have to suffer the Lenten seasons and the Good Fridays? Why can’t things be easier?

I don’t know. If I knew the answer, I would be the greatest sage in the world. All any of us have to go on are the clues we get from our traditions—like Passover and Easter—events in which the mysteries of life are contained.

Most of the time, because we are mere human beings, we see through a glass darkly. We stumble along trying to understand the mysteries of pain, with no brilliant visions of eternity to help us along. The uncomfortable, annoying, miserable, traumatic, and tragic are built into human existence. And we protest because our human nature expects and desires that the self and the ego will never be put out. The clear message of Lent and Easter is that the self and the ego have to be jolted or we never come fully alive. That’s both hard truth and mystery.

Back in the ’80s I had the chance to interview Tom Jones, the man who wrote the lyrics for the musical, “The Fantasticks.” I had always been impressed with the wisdom in his prize-winning song, “Try to Remember,” especially the line, “Without a hurt, the heart is hollow.” During our conversation he confided that he had learned that truth from his own pain, and then added that it was this truth that made life worthwhile. For without the dark side, we would never be able to appreciate the light, he said, paraphrasing what the saints have preached down through the ages. And I recalled what someone once wrote: “A clay pot sitting in the sun will always be a clay pot. It has to go through the white heat of the furnace to become porcelain.”

And there is yet another perspective on human pain that makes sense to a person who believes in Easter. It was spoken by the writer, Oscar Wilde, who asked, “How else but through a broken heart can the good Lord enter in?” He implied in his very question the necessary ingredient for attaining this intimate relationship between us and the heavens.

I remember reading about Moorehead Kennedy, Jr., who had been held hostage in Iran for 444 days, and who spoke about the spiritual change he and his wife had experienced as a result of this traumatic experience. The theme of his message was that the fearful, long months of captivity had led each of them to a deeper spiritual transformation. Mr. Kennedy compared his personal crisis to Lent and Easter, Christ’s suffering, death, and resurrection. Lent was the personal crisis, the “burning,” but Easter was the proof that “we matter and we live.”

Mrs. Kennedy likened the ordeal to a “crucible of anguish,” a time for burning out the residues of this world—all the false values and the distorted desires of the ego—that envelop our lives with trash. Without the time for burning, the clutter would keep us immobilized, unable to move along in the faith-journey that leads us to God and life forever.

From the “crucibles” of my own life, specifically the deaths of three beautiful sons, I understood and related to the truth of what Kennedy said. For I have come to see Lent as the mosaic of what life is about. It is given to us as a gift to take an incredible journey of some forty days where we can gain moments of real insight, unlocking the mysteries of why life is as it is. In Lent, we are given the freedom to ask questions and cry out our confusions, trusting that God understands, because of the promise that was shouted from the Cross: You, my people, will not have answers—but something much better: life forever.

In the chapters that follow, I offer my own vision of Lent, trying to take away the crusts, the negatives, the emphasis on sacrifice—sometimes artificial sacrifice—that sadly became the context in which I used to approach Lent. I hope my stories and reflections will encourage all you who read them to focus on your own lives and your stories. In our daily lives we have distractions, pitfalls, and so many happenings that make us feel that we are loners. Lent arrives to show us how wrong we are. Lent is a love story—an uncommon love story—showing us that, for all our difficulties and sorrows, we are not alone. We are forever linked to Jesus.

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