is like fasting half a night's sleep.
It's not that you can't do it. It's just that you get tired. It's just that it takes something out of you, and it feels like you're a little less you.
I can write, and live without free time in the evenings, without quiet and reading -
like I could maybe survive on less sleep:
for a time.
But tonight I'm exhausted. I wrote a parable and a fairy tale, and suddenly I'm just staring at the screen. I think it's just writer's block.
It's a time for increasing our hunger for Easter - for its release and comfort and joy (and chocolate, for some of you).
It's like having friends stay in your house with you. For a month. They show up, and your home is pristine. They're impressed. They settle in. For a while, the house stays tidy. But by day 14, everything is chaos, and no one can find the bedroom floors for all the blankets and air mattresses. And no one really cares about it. Except you.
And that's where I am tonight.
I'm tired, and my house is messy (figuratively and literally), and I don't want to spend 40 minutes editing. This is the third post I've wrestled with tonight, and Lent has emptied me out already, and I'm needing Easter.
What is Lent emptying you of this year?
How is it leaving you hungry for the Resurrection?
And, friend, what empty place will Jesus fill with more of Himself?
This is the way He fills us with life - gently, one day at a time, one empty space at a time.
This year, He's emptying out my pride. (I usually call it "perfectionism.") He's a genius at it. He knows just what to do.
And I'm just going to let Him do it.
It's about time.
Emptied and filled,