I’ve always found it a bit underwhelming that the word Lent merely means spring. It also seems paradoxical. Growing up in South Dakota and living my whole adult life in Minnesota, I have only experienced two Easters that remotely felt or looked like spring. Most Lents and Holy Weeks are cold and even snowy.
However, some vestiges of spring do push through this obstinate Midwest weather, and nature’s changes point to what ought to be our supernatural changes.
For example, during Holy Week last year, I ventured out on a nature walk in my winter layers and noticed the landscape had begun to change. Unfortunately, it seemed at its ugliest. The melted snow revealed a mishmash of mud, clumped leaves and a mess of sticks and dead underbrush. Even more notably, while I strived to imagine the forests soon leafed out and blossoming, I was shocked to instead encounter many freshly cut trees and the gaping holes their absences made in the now imbalanced view. Emerald ash borer had begun infecting the area, and trees were sacrificed to stop the spread. Intellectually I know this makes sense, but nevertheless it felt like a crime had been committed.
How can nature be made healthier when it has suffered such a loss? Even tree and bush trimming feels counterproductive. My husband loves gardening and landscaping. I hate cutting anything away, but he promises that it will help the shrub or tree grow even fuller. At the time, however, it just looks lopsided with awkward holes. I can’t bear to watch so I turn the other way and trust his trimming, which by midsummer always proves his skill and wisdom.
The more time I spend in our Minnesota springs, the more I have begun to appreciate the season’s apt connection to Lent. Spring is not actually all that beautiful. It’s the awkward phase between the majesty of winter and the vibrant life of summer.
That transition consists of unveiling nature in its bareness, just as we work with Christ in Lent to unveil who we truly are once our rationalizations and distractions have melted away. The Holy Spirit finds the insipid disease of sin infecting us and cuts it out to prevent spread. At first, we feel at a loss, but he urges us to trust his deft and skilled hand. In this new state we feel uncomfortable and possibly a little embarrassed. Challenging our attachments through Lenten practices of prayer, fasting and almsgiving, we can be humbled by the hold that base and superficial things have on us. Yet, we cannot choose and receive “the one thing necessary” (Lk 10:42) as Mary did, if we allow ourselves to stay distracted by lesser things. As Psalm 24:3-4 exhorts us: “Who shall climb the mountain of the Lord? Who shall stand in his holy place? The man with clean hands and pure heart, who desires not worthless things.”
We could keep things covered in snow. We could give all the appearance of mystery and majesty. But winter is cold and barren. The lush flourishing of summer requires the work of spring. If we allow the Holy Spirit to cut away our attachments, then we will find ourselves fuller than before and blossoming a little at Easter. The narrowness of our selfishness will open to the broadness of Christian love. The infection of greed, vanity, over-ambition, lust or intemperance cut down and destroyed will safeguard the new growth of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness and self-control.
Maybe Lent is the proper word for this time of year. At the same time, I would love it if they could start making cold weather Easter dresses for us northern Midwesterners!
A wife and mother, Catholic speaker and writer, Jendro teaches theology at Providence Academy in Plymouth and is a member of St. Thomas the Apostle in Corcoran. Follow her blog at taketimeforhim.com.
