Parenting in the Wilderness this Lent

I remember the jokes that weren’t entirely joking as we entered Lent in 2021…wait, hasn’t the last year been a never-ending Lent? For many of us, this Lent may be feeling similar. National narratives and painful public policy decisions, divisiveness, disasters in our communities, war and strife across the globe…there is pain, there is grief, there is anxiety.

Last year, as a ministry leader, I spent time each Wednesday evening with parents throughout Lent. Instead of focusing on what they should or needed to be doing with their children to mark the season, we created space for parents to talk, to reflect, and to pray, in community with one another. We only had 45 minutes, but for that brief time each week, I invited parents into a guilt-free Lenten practice of acknowledging the hard  work they were doing every minute of every day. We spent our time celebrating every parental victory, no matter how small, and helping each other hold the anxiety, the grief, and the fear of failure that seem to be inevitable components of raising children. 

Before Jesus started his ministry, after he’d been baptized by his cousin John, he went into the wilderness. We romanticize this decision, idealizing the isolation and hunger as a sort of spiritual cleansing. And that’s not  wrong, but sometimes I wonder if, in this age of self-help, we forget the weight of the decision to go into the Judean desert for weeks with no food, no water, and no cell phone.

Parenting is its own wilderness, where every decision feels weighty, isolation can be all too real, and sand or dirt seem to find their way into every crevice. Parents are carrying the weight of the world, as well as the weight of the grocery list and the cost of those groceries, the dentist appointment and last year’s soccer gear that of course no longer fits, the choir schedule and the 8-year-old who won’t eat lunch at school no matter what we send. Many of us balance these everyday struggles with worry over our own aging parents, demands of our own workplaces, college savings that feel like they will never be enough, and a spectrum of moral injury imposed by a landscape of anger and division.

This year, then, I invite you to find Lenten disciplines or practices that lighten the load, that embrace this wilderness season in ways that bring you and your family closer to God and your own innate sanctity. Have cereal and fruit for dinner while you play a favorite game. Go to the movies together and eat buckets of popcorn. Pack sandwiches and go for a picnic in the park or the countryside, making a game of naming all the new life you can find poking its head from the ground or the tips of the tree branches. Practice sending bottle rocket prayers—quick but heartfelt prayers of thank you, or help us, or simply wow—on car rides. Make a habit of being off your phone, making eye contact, and really attending as you greet your children in the morning, at drop off, and at the end of the day. 

Volunteering as a family or cleaning rooms, then donating whatever you can to those in need are wonderful Lenten disciplines, IF they can be carried out with joy in your family. If they lead to arguments and tears, you have permission to skip them. Giving up sweets or dinners out are fine, IF they help you feel closer to the One who made you. But if chocolate before bed feels like proof that God loves you and wants you to be happy, maybe shooting off a little prayer of thanks as you indulge is the better practice.

Imposing ashes on children’s foreheads last year, I veered from the usual “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” by adding, “the same stardust of the planets and galaxies.” God breathes life into your very being, every day. This Lent, can you take some deep breaths, welcoming the Holy Spirit with each inhalation, and sighing out love, belonging, and your own belovedness with each exhalation? Can you teach your children to do the same?

Whatever Lenten practices and disciplines you take on – or don’t – this year, I invite you to lead with love and grace, centering the belovedness of every member of your family, and of yourself, in this wilderness season.