This is Only a Test

“In this you rejoice, although now for a little while you may have to suffer through various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith, more precious than gold that is perishable even though tested by fire, may prove to be for praise, glory, and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ.” (1 Peter 1:6-7)

For decades, I have maintained that the Lent we get is harder than the Lent we choose.  We choose give-ups and take-ups that feel challenging yet manageable, then life gets busy throwing at us things that are challenging yet unmanageable. That’s why I’m always encouraging people to “Live the Lent You Get,” allowing life to become its own Lenten discipline.  Nevertheless, the intensity of this one caught me by surprise.

Or maybe it was just February. In the first half of the month, four friends lost close relatives—not one at a “ripe old age.” One former colleague died; two others landed in the hospital. On the evening of February 6, one of my aunts broke her hip and my choir director stopped breathing at home. My aunt came through surgery and is progressing well, but Valerie never regained consciousness, dying on the day before Ash Wednesday after forty years at the musical helm of St. Vincent’s.

That’s how this Lent began.

Many of us agreed that the early weeks of Lent didn’t feel like “waiting for the other shoe to drop” as much as “wondering how many shoes were left in the Rubbermaid bin that had been upended on our heads.”  But this was the Lent we’d been given—the only one we could live.  What would it look like to live it well?

Two words come to mind: compassion and gratitude.

Valerie’s death made me realize what a merciful interval it’s been since the last significant loss in my life.  In the seven years between 2007 and 2014, I said goodbye to both parents, my dear cousin Susan, my 97-year-old grandmother, and my 19-year-old cat. After a tragedy-free decade, however, Valerie’s death reacquainted me with some of the contours of grief.  Even though I was several degrees removed from the searing inner circles of sorrow, I found myself tired, forgetful, and even a bit grumpy, desiring little more than comfort food and early nights on the couch.  With the emotional circuit breakers tripped, I got stuff done but needed to remind myself to ask people how they were doing.  Though I wasn’t weeping or wailing, I felt like a stranger to myself.

The call to compassion was twofold.  The first way was simple: recognizing my own grief for what it was and being gentle with myself about it.  (To paraphrase St. Francis de Sales, I had to resist compounding the mess by becoming upset with myself for being upset.)  The second was both harder and more important: remembering that I never know what burdens other people are carrying, or how difficult their pain and grief might be rendering the ordinary tasks of life.  Whenever I am tempted to be critical, impatient, dismissive, or judgmental, God’s invitation is always to oceans of compassion.  I knew that from the outside but had forgotten what it felt like from the inside. In my better moments, I can thank God for the reminder. 

Noticing this and other causes for gratitude has been the real key to living the Lent I got this year.  Despite (or perhaps because of) the awfulness around me, goodness has been palpable. 

Over the last seven weeks, Valerie’s choir has done her proud.  While she hovered between life an death in intensive care, current and former members poured into her hospital room to pray, sing, and even play their instruments for her.  On the night after she left this world, we gathered at St. Vincent’s to create beautiful music for Ash Wednesday.  Two weeks later, we were part of a much larger chorus of singers and musicians celebrating Val’s life and legacy at her funeral.  Through each weekend of Lent, our occasionally ragtag bunch made sure our assigned Masses were covered; last night, we held our final choir practice for the Holy Triduum.

Nothing has been business as usual.  Valerie was our customary Sunday accompanist, but these last weeks have seen several choir members at the piano, while other Masses have been led by a guitar, a flute, or even a saxophone (played by the newest member of our group, who introduced himself to Val on what turned out to be her last day in church).  Soloists have stepped up with their gifts, while other singers have worked out harmonies.  With no one “in charge,” it feels like love alone has summoned us to generous service—love for God, for our parish, for the liturgy, for one another, and for Valerie’s memory. 

With no one “in charge,” it feels like love alone has summoned us to generous service.

After Easter, the choir director position will be posted.  Though no one can “replace” Val or fill her colorful shoes, eventually she will have a successor, and a new era will begin.  But just as I remember fondly the way my cousins came together to do the dishes on the Christmas after my mom died, I will remain grateful for this time-out-of-time in our choir.

Just days before the cascade of February woes, a snarky line in Bill Littlefield’s novel Mercy caught my eye: “What was this—a test? If so, Annie preferred not to sit for the exam.”

Indeed, this Lent has felt like a test.  My mind skitters to my perpetual Lenten resolution (“be on the lookout for daily invitations to prayer, sacrifice, and generosity”) and I wonder what marks God might give me come Easter.  But the real Lenten test is not of the pass/fail variety.  It’s that beautiful Scriptural image of “gold tested in fire,” whereby the heat of the trials we endure causes the impurities in us to rise to the surface.  If we can allow God the Refiner to skim off some of those impurities before we cool again, we will be more precious for the process.

For the preciousness of those whose goodness and generosity have marked this Lent for me, I offer a sacrifice of praise.  (This includes the countless souls who shared their hearts during my Lent retreats, from North Jersey to North Carolina and so many places in between; you know who you are!)

Whatever tests you are enduring these days, may your Holy Week and Easter be deeply blessed.