Lent
“you are dust and to dust you shall return”
You know that one embarrassing thing you did as a child, that one deranged quote your family will never let you forget? Despite the fact that you were a literal child? Here is mine.
I was born and raised Catholic. My family practiced Lent every year, and my parents usually chose the sacrifice for my brother and me. It was always dessert. I was a food-motivated child raised in a whole-wheat household. Dessert was not casual. This was no small sacrifice. But I was willing to endure the hardship, if it brought me closer to god.
My brother and I were allowed to indulge in our sacrifice once a week, on Sunday. This was the allowance my parents gave us.
My dad would make my brother and me little ice cream sundaes in reused applesauce cups. A scoop of Friendly’s Vienna Mocha Chunk, whipped cream, sprinkles, even a maraschino cherry. It was the pinnacle of my week. I fantasized about it daily. I licked the cup like the plastic might be sweet.
One Sunday evening during my Lenten sacrifice, I was 5 years old, my dad goes into the kitchen to make our sundaes. I am giddy waiting on our screened-in porch. He says he has made the sundaes extra special this evening, and we have to close our eyes.
Blissfully gullible, I close my eyes. Kicking my little legs in joy and anticipation as my sundae is placed in front of me.
“Okay!”
I move my hands to see a prune sitting in the applesauce cup—without so much as a sprinkle.
Any blurry memory I have of this evening ends here. I black out in rage.
“ME NO WANT NO BIG FAT STINKIN’ RAISIN.” I bellow in earnest agony, already in tears.
My parents were quick to correct the small prank, they had my real sundae waiting, but the damage was done. I had been betrayed, humiliated, my most sacred moment of the week had been used against me.
My brother took the prank in stride. To me, god was dead.
Deprivation didn’t weaken my desire. It sanctified it. And god had not held up his end of the bargain.
Life is suffering. That’s the whole gag with Catholicism. The better you are at enduring it, the holier you are. The quieter you endure it, the better still. And whoever suffers the most while making the least noise, wins! Or something like that.
Happiness is choosing which types of suffering you are best at enduring, according to the Catholics.
Lent is merely forty days of rehearsing suffering. You give something up to remember that you are small, that you are dust, that your body wants things, and holiness means saying no. Desire itself was suspicious. Wanting too much was dangerous. Wanting loudly was worse.
But when I saw that prune, my wants poured out of me vehemently.
Imagine living a life of holy suffering, denying yourself every earthly pleasure for a promised feast in heaven…only to arrive and find heaven is actually a mechanic’s waiting room with stale coffee and a TV that’s too loud. You’d have a big fat stinkin’ breakdown, too.
I love you from my head tomatoes,
Gareth
In my Father’s house are many sundaes