This blog post is brought to you by me, the makers of Starbucks, and the letter L.

Lately, Alice has been watching Sesame Street episodes on the Kindle.   Actually, episode, not episodes.  The one she watches over and over is the very first episode aired, I think.  It’s the one where they get a dog, and everyone gathers to decide if they should name the dog Barkley or Woof-Woof.  Spoiler Alert: they end up naming him Barkley.  But right after that dramatic scene, in true Sesame Street fashion, it flips to a video of a real warthog running through a field with some music in the background.  The warthog is introduced by Oscar’s voice, saying “Here is a Warthog” or something equally clever.  Eventually the warthog is joined by his warthog friends, and together they romp around for probably a full minute and  a  half with no real purpose before the scene switches to something else.

The first time I watched it with her, I was probably already on my third cup of coffee and it wasn’t even 9am yet.  I sat there on the couch, her in my lap, and chuckled a little at the fact that here I was, watching a warthog run around to music.  It struck me as entertaining somehow.  Alice, of course, joined in the laughing, assuming we were laughing about the silly animal video.  She looked up at me and said “Mom, there’s a funny warthog on my Kindle!”

At least three times that same day, she came to find me specifically to giggle and remind me about how sometimes, there’s a funny warthog on her Kindle.  She was genuinely entertained, as was I with her enjoyment of something so simple.  It made me start thinking about the last time I was so joyful over that kind of simplicity.   How often do I get caught up in what’s going on to not really even see what’s going on?  Distraction and everyday activities are a kind of antithesis of joy, I think.  I remember seeing a message emblazoned somewhere that said “Stop the Glorification of Busy.”   Indeed.

L is for Lent.

Yesterday was the first day of Lent.  It’s a time when we traditionally make sacrifices that are supposed to remind us of Jesus’ suffering on our behalf, and those sacrifices are intended to bring us closer to God.

Sometimes I think there’s a disconnect, though, in the sacrifice itself and the journey with God.  It’s easier to turn to friends and say “man, it’s really hard to do [x] today”  or “I really miss having [x].”  And trust me when I say that I’m turning this observation inward.  I’m probably more guilty of it than the next person.   What I really should be doing is going to God to say those things, and instead of complaining about it, turning it into a prayerful reflection.

Reflection.  Much like joy, it’s so frequently sabotaged by activity.  Who has time to reflect on sacrifice?  I feel like I barely have time to stop and pee during the day, let alone reflect on anything.  But without the reflection, the sacrifice alone falls flat.  At the end of the journey, I’m relieved that it’s over, but not necessarily any closer to God or to a prayerful life than I was at the beginning.  Which seems a bit like a road that doesn’t lead anywhere.  If I stopped to reflect and pray throughout the day as often as Alice stops to reflect on that warthog video, I’d probably be somewhere on the right path.  Both to being closer to God and to being a better person.

You’ve probably heard the phrase “Intentional Living” before. It’s typically used to describe the act of focusing actions and choices around a specific goal or belief and staying very aware of those choices.  This Lent, I’m going to focus on Intentional Thinking. By that, I mean I’m going to try to stay more aware of my mental real estate and which thoughts are taking up that space.  I’m going to try to turn my random thoughts into real reflections, and turn to God with both my struggles and my joys.

Breaking old habits is never easy, so I’m sure I won’t get this right the first few hundred times.  But I will have a wonderful example dancing around in front of me all day long.  If I can turn to God the way that Alice turns to me, to ask for help when something is hard or to share the simple joy she found in something, I will have grown at least a little.  And that’s a start.