The other day my kids found a pile of scrap wood in the garage. They painstakingly hauled it, bit by bit, to our backyard. On one of her trips, my eldest daughter proudly pronounced, “We’re building a treehouse!”
My heart sank. It’s not that I have anything against treehouses, of course. In my daydreams about giving my children an idyllic childhood, a treehouse features prominently. I’d say it ranks just behind “an acre of forested wood” and just ahead of “a pony.”
No, no, it wasn’t the treehouse itself. What I knew in that moment was that my daughter had fixed an image in her mind about what her creation would look like. There would be no wavering from the original intent, and when she inevitably failed in creating this mythical treehouse, there would be disappointment, possibly tears, and most assuredly, a mess.
As I attempted to help my daughter widen her scope of imagination (Perhaps a fort? Or a spy hideout? Surely something closer to the ground, and that didn’t require the use of power tools?) I began to see echoes of my own Lent within the conversation. How much had I built up my own personal Lenten fasts with expectations of the outcomes?
Each Lent begins the same way for me. I make lists of what I plan to do and then I dream of how much better a person I will be by Easter. Such spiritual fruit! What a holy body and soul! This Lent will be different, surely. I’ll conquer all my proclivities for sin, all my concupiscence! This Lent I will succeed!
And then I stumble. Every Lent, without fail, I stumble and fall. On the days when my Lenten fasts have been too great to bear, I find myself despairing. This isn’t what it’s supposed to look like! This isn’t how I imagined it! This isn’t the Lent I was intent on building.
You’ve figured out by now that I’m forgetting one key ingredient: God’s plans for me. By fixating on my goals for Lent, I leave out the possibility that God has deeper, richer, more complex intentions for me. What are my plans in comparison with His?
“Some, says St. Francis de Sales, argue that perfection consists in an austere life, others in prayer, others in frequenting the sacraments, others in almsgiving. But they deceive themselves: perfection consists in loving God with our whole heart.” – The Practice of the Love of Jesus Christ, St. Alphonsus Ligouri
Perfectionism is the enemy of spiritual growth. Perfectionism says “I failed because I didn’t try hard enough.” Spiritual growth says “ I’ve fallen, but I’m going to get back up.” After all, Jesus fell three times on the road to Calvary. Every time, without fail, He rose and continued on His way to the cross. I can do no less.
Instead of beating myself up this Lent, I’m trying something new. Every morning, when I wake up, I ask God to build me into what He will. I’m getting up, again and again. Perhaps more importantly, when I lose my temper with my children in spite of my greatest desire to be patient with them, I thank God for the lesson in humility. When I absentmindedly grab a snack on Friday instead of maintaining my fast, I offer gratitude for the reminder to spend more time in prayer so that I am not quite so forgetful next week. I’m letting go of my own plans and focusing on loving God with my whole heart.
So don’t let your own meager ideas and perfectionist ways ruin your Lent. Turn it over to God and ask Him to perfect you. He will find the good and the beautiful in your forgetfulness, and in your sinfulness. God, if you let Him, will build your soul into the most glorious treehouse the world has ever seen.
