Those who caught last month’s column may recall that I was on a bit of a hopeful high: Savoring my Valentine décor, embracing a reinvigorated devotion to The Little Flower, and resting in the solace of my epiphany regarding heavy crosses that are long in duration.
Then I flipped the calendar to March, and transformed my friendly confines for Lent and St. Paddy’s: Red and pink gave way to purple and green; lush stepped aside for minimalist.
I can’t pinpoint the catalyst, but by late in the day on Mardi Gras, I found myself in a Major League “Job moment” — minus his patience at the plate, it pains me to admit.
Sigh.
The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.
I know that Lent is a time for spiritual growth, self-improvement, reconnecting with discipline, and self-denial.
It’s spring training for the soul before the season opener of Eastertide is upon us.
I was prepared for the workouts — planning for them, actually.
I have a to-do list of long-ignored chores and books at the ready.
I’m taking my best shot at getting my fasting efforts out of the minor leagues and into The Show.
But this was not the typical angst we all feel in that first half-week of Lent (when confronted with serious longing for that thing we decided to give up).
It was not the shards I was sweeping up in my September column.
This was an abrupt plummet into spiritual darkness — the likes of which I have not experienced for over two years, and under which I suffocated for 48.
Suddenly, inexplicably, my faith regressed from this emotionally fervent place back to an intellectual concept that I managed to accept out of discipline, but could no longer feel in my heart.
I was once again spiritually vacuous, and it devastated me.
I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to that place. The new place has been ever-so-nice.
In my loneliness since my husband’s death and my daughter’s independence in her own life, a closeness to The Trinity has been the primary thing that has borne me up day to day. Now it was gone from me once again.
I felt like the recipient of a wayward hurl from Nolan Ryan, and I did my best to figure out where my mechanics had gone wrong and left me vulnerable to crowding the plate: Something I ate? Exercise I missed? A chaplet I willfully skipped?
I couldn’t even fall back on athletic superstition since the full moon was still nine days away.
Was Our Father allowing evil a bit more latitude this Lent? That notion has often puzzled me in the book of Job: Why He allowed Satan to go ahead and give poor Job the business for so long, and to such a degree.
Job must have felt like he went from a life that was “one fastball out of the park after another,” only to be brought to his knees by the nastiest of changeups.
His suffering seems so unfair to the mortal mind.
I’m not remotely equating myself to Job, but I thought revisiting his story might help me.
I fell back on trusty batting coach, Fr. Mike Schmitz, recalling that Job was read during the first month of Bible in a Year.
Father’s commentaries for Day 25 (cue up to 18:40 through 21:40) and Day 26 (20:08 through 23:14) are worth a listen regarding the subject of suffering — especially as we make our way through these 6.5 innings of Lent, and dig deep for Job’s steadfastness in the wake of temptation that is sure to present itself.
If I can offer any takeaway from this recent personal episode, it would be this: Even when He has granted you the healing you’ve needed to emerge from the Dark Night of the Soul, apparently it is possible to experience a relapse.
But there is a happy ending, for I was back to my “new” old self in less than 48 hours.
In fact, perhaps I am even a wiser self, in that I realize how much nurturing this newfound state of heart, mind, and soul requires . . . how delicate it is. I am well-advised to not take it for granted.
Though it took all the willpower I could muster at that moment (anger, hurt, and pride are very good at robbing us of the will to do the right thing), I found myself heading over to Adoration and Confession early evening on Thursday after Ash Wednesday at St. Maria Goretti Church in Madison.
I wasn’t even sure if either of those things was what I needed, but I knew I needed something.
Clearly, my Guardian Angel was working OT again, for I felt better just looking at the brilliant glow of the monstrance and the candles . . . soaking in a silence that was peaceful instead of empty.
Tears began to flow as if from the melting of a hardened spirit, and it felt good to be on my knees. Comfort was making its way back to me.
The Confession line began to look inviting instead of foreboding; almost without thinking, I found myself in the spiritual batting cage.
God bless Father for his patience, his understanding of what I had experienced, and his guidance.
I truly did emerge renewed, as the hurt began to leave me as soon as I confessed my sorrow for giving into anger and despair.
I think I’ll make that late Thursday run a regular thing this Lent: Adoration, Confession, hitting my knees in prayer — they all seem to me very good weapons for battling evil and staying close to God.
In fact, you might even say they’re the perfect “triple play”!
Maria Burns is a lifelong Catholic and writer who lives in Madison and is a member of St. Maria Goretti Parish in Madison, part of Divine Mercy Pastorate.