Blowing the dust off Ash Wednesday.

I read this blog recently posted by the former wife of a very famous bicyclist turned marathoner, turned smart marketer and rock star/starlette dater. Some people have criticized her for capitalizing on her ex-husband’s fame, calling her a tag-along. I personally think she may know quite a bit about the subject of this week’s blog: sacrifice. Whatever the case, I say who am I to judge?

The fact is, I was captivated by the subject of her blog. She wrote about beginning her day at Ash Wednesday services. It got me to thinking about my love/hate relationship with Ash Wednesday services when I was a kid. I grew up Catholic and regularly alternated between loving the reverence of Catholic Mass, especially Lenten services, but also being overwhelmed by the death and sadness during that season. Somehow I always missed the boat on the best part: the Resurrection. I just got stuck in the scary part.

But things have changed. Somewhere along the way, some very key people straightened out the story for me. And Ash Wednesday stopped being scary. I stopped being stuck in the scary part. And that was all great. But then I learned the hard part. I had to die to myself. And that wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice if I only had to do it once. But then I realized I had to do it daily. And on a good day, I still have to do it several times a day. Maybe some people have figured this all out much better than I have, but I seriously doubt it.

You know the scenario that replays itself in much of the dieting population in modern America on a regular basis. It usually starts somewhere around Thursday evening. It may involve the basket of fresh, salty tortilla chips at the favorite local Mexican restaurant. You know the train of thought: It’s Thursday. The day before Friday. Which is of course, the official start of the weekend. So of course I can have that donut out of the box in the lunchroom and order a cheeseburger for lunch. But at least I’ll have a Diet Coke. But I can surely have that Snickers out of the vending machine, because tomorrow is Saturday. And somewhere along the way, it all turns into…I promise I’ll be good on Monday.

I’ve realized dying to myself is kind of like that, but harder. Because there is no Monday in eternity. It starts now. And while for me, sometimes it is about food, it is more often about my words. And my actions. And my thoughts. And my desires. And my will. And it is difficult. And messy. And humbling. And enlightening. And worth it. And it isn’t the best part. And that is okay. Because it helps me see the best part in a whole new light.