There, I’ve said it. I’ll even say it again: I hate Lent, I hate it with the firey passion of a thousand suns.
Now, I’m all for a season of penitence. I’m rather grateful for God’s grace and forgiveness, without which I have no idea where I’d be right now (but I ‘spect I’d be dead. It’s a long story, maybe I’ll tell you later). But by the boogers of the Sweet Baby Jesus, if someone refers to Lent as a ‘journey’ one more time, I’m going to call out the 82nd Division of the Little Old Churchlady Handbag Brigade to knock them about the head so hard that the word ‘journey’ itself is shaken loose.
Journey, schmurny. You can’t run away from your sins, no matter how hard you try. They follow you everywhere, you wind up packing them along with your clean underwear. This is housekeeping time, people.
Tie your hair up in a ‘do rag, get out the Dustbuster, and get to work. Don’t forget those corners where you like to pile things, like under beds and on top of your desk and in the closet (yeah, us faygelahs ain’t the only ones with closets, you know I’m right). Let the light in, open the windows, get a big garbage bag and a shovel if you have to, get help if you need it, dig out the mouldy bits under the bathroom sink.
And get chopping, people! The Man Himself is coming soon! You’ve got to get ready!