“But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again…” John 4:14.
I felt like God was calling me to observe the Lenten season this year. As is often the case, He didn’t submit a list of explicit instructions. Just a feeling. A tug. A sense that some sort of sacrifice, some sort of fast, would be of benefit to wherever my Christian walk is taking me in these weeks leading toward Easter. I’m not of a Christian denomination that makes a big deal about Lent or even really acknowledges it all. No Friday fish fries or morning rites. Which is too bad, really. Not because I love fish fries (although a fresh-caught trout, cornmeal breaded and pan fried at a vineyard in Michigan may be the best meal I’ve ever had), but because my soul expands in the beauty and symbolism of liturgy, in the rhythm of the ecclesiastical calendar, in the language of the Daily Book of Common Prayers. If not for my conservative, fundamental upbringing, I would have made a good Catholic. (I’m not opposed to a little wine in the communion cup, either. (My school position contractually denies that sort of thing, so I'm just saying.))
OK. Lent. Sacrifice. Fast. Fasting makes me a bit crazy. And also tends to give me hives.. Not eating does bad things to me. I don’t like it. But then again, fasting is not one of those things that’s meant to be liked, I suppose. Rather, like the discipline of exercise, done because it’s a good thing to do and beneficial come swimsuit season. Maybe the “liking” comes after. Because like it or not, fasting is a valuable spiritual discipline - sacrificing self, denying self, emptying self so the Spirit may fill with His clarity, wisdom, guidance.
I also had a bit of a legalistic conundrum with the fact that Lent began on February 13, the day Sam and I were flying to Florida for two days of study and two days of play. (There were priests at the airport offering ashes. Which I thought was totally cool but also rather odd.) The spiritual discipline of the fast didn’t seem to connect with the spiritual disciplines of celebration and study that I had planned for the weekend. (I wanted butterbeer and beignets. No question.) But then I discovered something. I always thought Lent was exactly 40 days – to mirror the 40 days Jesus spent in the wilderness before his time of temptation. But Lent is really like 46 days – Sundays don’t count. So I had no qualms starting my Lent on February 19th, a full 40 days before Easter, Sundays included.
With the technicalities worked out, the exact nature of the fast began to clarify. It didn’t involve foregoing food, praise be to God. In fact, I thought it was going to be an “easy” fast. That works for me just now – quick and easy, spiritual growth in five minutes or less, no heavy lifting required, glory and amen. The parameters – drink only water for 40 days.
I know, not a huge sacrifice, right? Granted I had developed a rather serious psychological and physiological addiction to coffee since bringing home our early bird in May. But I don’t really drink soda, other than an Izze now and then. And that school contract already limited other, more adult libations. Really it was just coffee (with steamed milk). Oh, and chai tea. And also regular tea. And sweet tea. And green tea. And hot chocolate. How hard could this be?
Today is the first day in nine days that I haven’t had a raging headache. RAGING. And I don’t even care what that says about my addiction to coffee because the moment Java opens on Easter morning (in 31 days) I am there for a fair trade extra-venti café au lait with caramel. I am counting the minutes. He is risen! He is RISEN INDEED!
I didn’t realize the soothing power inherent in a hot mug of something. Especially on days - like all of February and March - that it is 34 degrees and misty. (Yes, I tried drinking hot water. It is, frankly, awful.) I miss tea leaves and herbs and lemon and sugar and milk and fair-trade cocoa.
Not only has it taken me this long to move past the headache, but also to figure out if this fast even had a point or if it was just some stupid, legalistic endeavor invented by Catholics to make the last six weeks of winter even more miserable than they already are.
But these last couple of days, every time I pass my Keureg to pour a cup of water, I still grumble but I also thank God that cool, clean water gushes from the tap. CLEAN WATER. FROM A TAP. And I can drink as much of it as I want – or don’t want – to drink. Without fear of disease. Or parasites. Or death.
According to water.org, water-related disease kills more people every year than does war. Three-and-a-half million people. A city the size of Los Angeles. Every year. For lack of clean water.
Lack of access to clean water and sanitation kills nearly two children every minute. TWO. CHILDREN. EVERY. MINUTE.
These aren't just random nameless, faceless people. These are people just like our friends in Mexico - Alejandra and Sonia and Paula and Guadalupe. These are people JUST LIKE MY SON. He was once in that place where clean water was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He came home with some of those waterborne nasties. It is only by the grace of God and his genetically strong immune system that he was not a statistic, too.
Women and children bear an added burden as the brunt of fetching and carrying water falls on their shoulders. Literally. Not only do women spend 200 million hours a day globally collecting water, disallowing work, care taking, and schooling, but the miles they must travel puts them at risk of rape, kidnapping and death. It is no wonder that Jesus spoke so unconventionally to the woman at the well. The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.” |
| A woman and her child gathering water from a contaminated source. (Courtesy of Marion Medical Mission.) |
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| Celebrating the installation of a clean water well. (Courtesy of Marion Medical Mission.) |
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