The (no) Sweet Life

Julia Spencer-Fleming: For most of the USA, this time of year is known as OhGodWillWinterEverEnd, but for those of us following liturgical calendars, it's also Lent, the forty days (and nights) between Ash Wednesday and Easter.

Lent has many similarities to February, the month in which it usually begins: it's dreary, it seems somehow much longer than it is, and it exists in a limbo of non-festivity; Christmas only a pine-scented memory, Easter (and spring) unimaginable as you squelch through mud and decaying snow. In our churches, we forgo pretty floral arrangements and swags and banners (admittedly, the flower thing may be because the flower guild's budget is low after the big Christmas blow out - five hundred poinsettias don't come cheap.) The readings can be charitably called pointed - the past Sunday we were reminded we are a "sinful and adulterous generation." Which makes me believe I'm definitely missing out on fun somewhere. Even the hymns are depressing - check out this dirge-like classic:




So what am I doing to get through this, the DMV waiting room for the rest of the year? I have sacrificed sweets. Oh, dear readers, it's painful. I've always had a sweet tooth. My mother tells a story about having to pin a note on my that read "Don't feed" because I would go from neighbor to neighbor asking for cookies. The only reason I finished my BA in four years was because I powered through every paper eating a party-sized bag of M&Ms while drinking a six-pack of Coca-cola. (No, I didn't sleep for two days afterwards, why do you ask?)

I am everymore a dessert person. I like dessert after dinner. Hell, I like dessert after lunch. I've substituted my usual candy/cookies/pastries with oranges, unsalted almonds and raisins. I'm waiting to experience that thing over-eager diet writers describe, where just a bite of yummy fruit is more than sweet enough for me! So far, this has not happened. I don't care how deprived I am, a handful of dried fruit tastes nowhere near as good as a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. Like, if they were men, the raisins would be Steve Mnuchin and the peanut butter cup would be Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson.

The only reason I made it through the first week of Lent without cheating was the fact I cleared the fridge and pantry of anything sweet. (We still have three-month old candy canes in the cupboard, but even I take a hard pass on those.) The real challenge came a couple days ago, when I had dinner with our own Brenda Buchanan and her wife Diane. Like an idiot, I volunteered to make dessert. I managed to bake brownies, take them to Brenda's house, and bring back one for Youngest at the end of the evening, all without tasting them myself. However, I confess to you, my brothers and sisters, that I licked the bowl. Not in a dignified way with the scraper, either. I got right in there. I had brownie batter on my cheek.

Will I make it through to Easter? Possibly. Will I have developed healthy new habits and learn to prefer apple slices over Snickers Bars? Not likely. But in the dreary days of February and March, sometimes the struggle is is sufficient unto itself.

As Thou didst hunger bear, and thirst,
So teach us, gracious Lord,
To die to self, and chiefly live
By Thy most holy Word.