"What should I give up for Lent this year?"

Each February of my youth, the same question would come to mind. Without fail, I would attend Mass on the third, the feast of St. Blaise, for the annual throat-blessing (the liturgical insurance policy for church musicians), then ponder which small treat to forgo or character flaw to adjust during the 40 days leading up to the Easter Triduum. 

I must confess: when I was a child, the season of Lent scared me a little. My well-intentioned resolutions to give up sweets or argue less frequently with my younger brother Tom were broken all too quickly, and I dreaded my final interview with St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. I envisioned him holding the wrapper of my surreptitiously eaten candy bar, or disappointedly shaking his head as he reviewed the transcript of my latest “Did too! Did not!” argument with my sibling. I stood before him, eyes downcast. I had failed Lent 101; now I’d never qualify for heaven but instead would spend eternity regretting my deeds. I imagined my family and friends peering hopefully through the gates, eagerly awaiting my admission, but it was not to be. St. Peter wouldn’t say a word but instead hand me a rotisserie stick skewering a marshmallow, pull the handle on a giant trap door, and wave farewell as I tumbled through the clouds past the earth and into the eternal flames.

As I have matured and my understanding of my faith has deepened, I recognize the errors in this daydream. (First of all, there are no marshmallows in heaven.) Echoing our Savior’s 40 days of temptation in the desert, Lenten sacrifice cleanses the soul and readies the heart for the joys of Easter and the Risen Christ. It is an opportunity for self examination, not self punishment. My life-long question had changed, but still weighed heavily upon me: what can I do during Lent to make me a better Christian?

This February, I had plenty of time to ponder the issue as I repeatedly cleared my home’s driveway of the remains of one heavy snowstorm after the next. As I dug a narrow luge run for my car, the answer came to me: spend more quality time with Jeremy, my one-foot-out-of-the-nest offspring, and be more patient with his foibles. This quarter-century-year-old man-boy needed a mother’s guiding hand, to be sure, but too strong an influence would create a Norman Bates-like dysfunctional adult. I had to strike a careful balance.

Due to Jeremy’s long workday driving for a national package delivery company, and my erratic, a la carte work and church life, our primary modes of communication were cell phone text messages and a few scrawled notes left on the kitchen table. “This ought to be easy,” I chuckled. “We see each other awake, what, maybe two hours a day? I can be patient for only two hours a day!” I was proud (and a bit smug) that I would undertake such a noble yet simplistic route to self-betterment, and began to anticipate the Lenten season for the very first time.

Do you remember the old Baltimore Catechism question, “What must we do to gain the happiness of heaven?” The answer was, “We must know, love, and serve God in this world.” Well, that might be good enough for the Baltimore edition, but the New Jersey version seems to have an asterisk, a heretofore-unvoiced fourth responsibility: we must amuse him as well.

While at work one snowy day, my son slipped on a patch of ice outside his delivery truck and injured his anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL. (Go ahead, open another browser window and Google it, I’ll wait… Got it? Okay, glad to have you back.) Just in time to test my Lenten resolve, Jeremy was now at home, in pain, and anticipating months of physical therapy both before and after an operation. I had chosen to work on increasing patience this Lent?? This was no undertaking for a mere mortal alone: it was time to call upon a heavenly helpmate. 

Research produced no official patron saint for the virtue of patience, but one of the patron saints of mothers might be up to the task: St. Monica, whose constant prayers for 17 years saved the soul of her son Augustine. My prayers to her might lead me to a more careful balance upon the line between mothering and smothering my son during this long recuperation.

The morning after his injury, I awoke with firm resolve to show my son compassion and patience.  Jeremy ensconced himself in the Leslie version of Captain Kirk’s bridge chair: the family room’s reclining lounger. His leg elevated and stationary as per doctor’s orders, I equipped my progeny with all the appropriate electronic accoutrements: the television and DVD remotes, a stack of high-explosive action movies, a cell phone with Internet access, blankets, an ice bag, and a heating pad. I thought I had fulfilled his every need, save a little light breakfast. 

"Do you want some toast and juice?" I asked solicitously.

My son gave me a disbelieving look and replied, "Mom, there’s nothing wrong with my appetite…" and requested a can of Beefaroni, some soup, crackers, and cranberry juice as his first meal. I had momentarily forgotten that this is the young man who, at age 12, declared, "I think eating separate foods for breakfast is stupid." Over the years this culinary epiphany has resulted in his staking claim to anything in the freezer, fridge or cabinets regardless of food group, calorie content or time of day.

As February progressed and Jeremy grew stronger and more mobile, he hobbled to the kitchen almost hourly for sustenance. The non-stop viewing of the NFL Channel must have left him famished but inspired, for he began to consume quantities and combinations of foodstuffs unrivaled by the players he watched. Nothing was safe from his clutches; even a small piece of steak transported home from my evening’s restaurant meal and carefully hidden behind the container of breadcrumbs was liberally coated with ketchup and disappeared into the maw of my son.

I tried to keep my Lenten promise and remain patient, but wondered if St. Monica was indeed my best choice of patron saint for this virtue. Though her 17-year litany of prayer may have been inspirational, Monica’s son Augustine was travelling much of that time, so her grocery bill must have been lower than mine. In addition to prayer, I decided to take earthly action.

My counterstrike was swift but effective; being a writer, my pen proved mightier than the sword (and Jeremy’s appetite) once again. Styrofoam-encased leftovers now bore the messages “Yes, you can eat this” or “Mom’s: Please do not touch.” The freezer was stocked with separate containers of ice cream identified by their approved scooping recipient; identical cereals and crackers were purchased in duos but individually labeled with a “C” or “J” on its box top. I staked out a small subset of the groceries for myself and patiently awaited the slaking of his appetite.

[I cannot take credit for this culinary subterfuge, for I learned food conservation and sleight-of-hand from the original Mistress of Deception: my mother. As children, Tom and I would swipe snack cakes from the fridge after dinner instead of saving them for the next day’s school lunches.  My mother managed to outwit us for a few years by stashing them in the freezer wrapped in tin foil and deceptively labeled "fish."]

Oh, and to any of you judging this food segregation unChristian: let he who is raising a growing son cast the first stone!

Once the food impasse had been reached, it was time for phase two: the forcible separation of my son from the television set. I firmly admonished him, "It’s time you do something else besides watch the NFL Channel," implying he work a crossword puzzle or read a book. He calmly agreed, and I went to the grocery store confident we had conquered another problem. Upon returning home, I heard the television droning and went to see why he had not taken my suggestion.

"Jeremy! Why are you STILL there?!" I bellowed incredulously.

Jeremy rolled his eyes at my outburst and calmly replied, "Oh, Mom, you said to do something different, and I AM doing something different. Now I’m watching college basketball." 

This Lent I am learning much about my capacity for patience. I have also grown to appreciate the son whom I birthed and who, despite his eating habits and television viewing, is evolving into an intelligent, interesting young man. We have spent many hours discussing his medical status, debating world events, and taking 54-mile round trips to our favorite restaurant. 

Patience hasn’t been easy (for either one of us), but the effort has been worthwhile and helped me walk closer to the Easter goal. Nonetheless, I’ll more carefully consider what I choose to do next Lent, and probably pick something easier… like barefoot, blindfolded mountain climbing.