Enough wallowing, y'all. Lent is halfway through, and despite my permanent Lenten disposition, I'm tired of being all intense and mopey about it. Luckily, I find myself in the BVS office this week, where wisecracks and snot jokes abound. Cal and I spent the entire lunch hour performing numbers from our childhood musical repertoires, and Don cracks approximately 42.3 puns per hour. The snot jokes come from Dan, the boss, and Sharon is simply prone to fits of giggles. It's a decent place to work.
Plus, I had dinner with Logan and lunch with Margie, spent a fabulous (and gluttonous) ladies' weekend in Michigan, Miami is looming large in the queue of Lenten destinations, and I plan to celebrate the resurrection with a transatlantic flight to Paris.
Lent is supposed to be about confession, penitence, self-denial and fasting, and I suppose traveling the world eating, drinking, laughing and celebrating appears a strange way to attempt that. Forced or farce, my explanation is that this is a fast from home, a denial of my tendencies to hole up by myself, a confession that I have not rightly engaged the world or loved the people in it very fully or even remotely well. Besides, before Holy Week - before those days of trials and rejection and condemnation and the walk to the cross - Jesus was wandering around doing exactly this. He ate, he drank, he told stories, he laughed, and he celebrated the possibility of a world turned upside down.
Of course, Jesus did lots of other stuff, too, tougher stuff that I've yet to attempt. For the time being, though, I'm feeling led to roam around the world. And, of course, to ROCK IT through the Lenten wilderness.