A Gentler Lent
Everything feels heavy right now, doesn’t it?
I’ve been thinking about the season of Lent. My Facebook feed is full of outrageous pictures and videos from Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I can only imagine what tomorrow’s Fat Tuesday posts will look like.
I knew about Fat Tuesday long before I understood Lent. And what I “knew” was this: it was a day to indulge without apology. That was about the extent of my theological education.
Since learning about Lent, though, the concept of Fat Tuesday has always struck me as… odd.
The idea of one last day of gluttony before entering into a season of sacrifice and reflection has never quite settled in my soul.
Why participate today in the very thing you’re giving up tomorrow?
It feels like staring straight at something in your life and acknowledging it’s not good for you — and then gripping it tighter, daring anyone to pry it from your hands.
It feels counterintuitive.
And yet.
I see this same pattern playing out everywhere.
When I turn on the news.
When I scroll headlines.
When faith communities turn a blind eye to injustice — or worse, become active participants.
When churches crumble under scandal.
When leaders fall from grace.
Everything just feels heavy.
Lost at Sea
If I’m honest, it’s left me feeling a little lost at sea.
Unanchored.
I don’t know what your relationship with Lent looks like.
Or if you even have one.
But this year, I’m not interested in dramatic gestures or spiritual extremes.
I’m not looking for one last binge before restraint.
Or a performance of sacrifice.
I’m craving something steadier than that.
Calm in the Chaos
When God whispered the word calm to me as a focus for 2026, I didn’t fully understand it. When I sensed the phrase “calm in the chaos,” I didn’t know what that would require. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t especially eager to find out.
But I knew — in that steady, unshakeable way you sometimes just know — that this was preparation.
Not for escape.
Not for avoidance.
But for presence.
Because maybe Lent isn’t about dramatic deprivation.
Maybe it’s about loosening our grip.
Maybe it’s about unclenching our fists.
Maybe it’s about learning how to stay anchored — even when the waters aren’t calm.
An Invitation to Slow Down
So here we are.
Over the next 47 days, I’ll be sharing a daily gentle devotion with a few reflection questions. Nothing loud. Nothing performative. Just space.
Space to slow down.
Space to pay attention.
Space to remember who God is when everything else feels unstable.
My hope is simple: that we would practice calm in the chaos. That we would prepare our hearts for Easter not through pressure, but through presence.
If that sounds like something your soul could use right now, I’d love for you to join me.
The daily devotions will be available here on Substack. And if you’d prefer a weekly printable PDF to use in your own quiet moments, you can sign up to receive those here.
Let’s choose gentleness this year.
I write in two spaces. A Seat at the Table is where I explore faith, healing, and making room for honesty after it’s been made complicated. Ink & Intention is for writers who want to show up with clarity, discernment, and integrity—especially online.
I’m also the author of Breathing Again and several guided journals, and I work with writers who want thoughtful, grounded support as they find their voice and shape what comes next.
If something here resonated, you’re welcome to explore more at your own pace. You can find everything in one place here.
