Alleluia from our family to yours!

We've had forty days of preparation. It has amounted to forty days of meager penances taken on, abandoned, feebly reattempted. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is oh so weak.

We stared down our weaknesses and sin.

The apostles fell asleep while Christ suffered immeasurable torments. 

We, too, 'sleep through' the time given to us. 

The apostles abandoned Jesus during His Passion and death. We, too, back away from even the smallest sufferings we can offer Him.

Lent, though, is not a contest. Despite click-bait-y titles from bloggers, you can not

"win" at Lent. We forge a relationship with Christ in Lent. How can you "win" doing that?

But equally, you can not "lose" at Lent. 

I console myself of that when I recall just how pathetic my attempts to unite my small sufferings to Him were and are. 

We can still take up our crosses, our tiny toothpick crosses, and follow Him. In doing so, we deepen our love for Him. We see how desperately we need Him. That is Lent.

 Meanwhile, if Lent is some sort of a contest, then the prize is already won. Christ trampled death by death and so the victory is ours to claim at Easter. Immeasurable joy awaits us in eternity, but it is equally available to us right now. 

I freely admit that I only grasp this reality on an intellectual level; perhaps my heart is still in need of some more Lenten maturing.

We had a wonderful Easter. The kids were so joyful and excited. It was touching to see Noah now old enough to serve at the Triduum liturgies. He had his feet washed at Holy Thursday Mass and was delighted to have received such an honour.

I took just Isaiah to the Good Friday liturgy (Patrick took Noah at a different time, as we decided our youngest two needed to stay home that day). Our seats were very near the front, and I could see he was riveted by what he saw, including our very elderly associate pastor prostrating himself.

His imagination was obviously captivated because he came home and found an old sheet and made himself a chasuble. He has since been offering Mass in his bedroom with all of us expected to come in and receive a gluten-free cracker host.

He has made Anna the choir director. She sits on the top bunk -- her choir loft -- and leads us in a rousing version of "Pop goes the weasel." Her piety lags a little at the tender age of three.

Quotable:

Isaiah, asking for a glass of water after having too any Easter treats: "I need a pellet scaper." (A palate cleanser.)
Anna, asking me to rinse out an empty can of tuna. "Wash it, it's too tune-y."
Me: "No trebuchets or Nerf guns at the table; we're having breakfast here." Can you SAY "Mom of three boys"?!