Dear Becca…
On fasting, intentional hardship and the gift of finding out how loved you are.
Dear Becca,
I have a little confession to make— I’ve always known you love me, but sometimes I forget you also care. You probably didn’t think about it for more than a second or two, but that post you sent me on Instagram, the one with the quote about how you see me and the progress I’m making — that meant a lot to me. When you rubbed my back for a second at the basketball game or how you checked in on me throughout the day Friday, making sure I knew it was okay to eat something if I wasn’t feeling good— those things meant a lot to me too.
I didn’t really talk to you about it before I decided to fast on Fridays during Lent. I mean, you knew about it, because I’ve done some sort of fasting for Lent the last few years, but I didn’t tell you that this year I was challenging myself to a full 24 hour fast from dinner on Thursday to Friday evening.
I had the idea rolling around in my head for a while. Even before I lost my job. It came to me one day when I was rucking with the dogs. It was cold and raining and we were on the big loop. You called me and asked if I wanted a ride home. A couple other people must have seen us trudging too, because they texted me to ask if I was okay. I was okay, but more than that, I couldn’t bear the idea of not finishing that walk. I’m not a glutton for punishment or anything. I’m not looking to be miserable, though carrying thirty-five pounds on my back while keeping pace with an enthusiastic chocolate lab with soaking shoes and socks isn’t exactly fun. In fact, it was pretty terrible and I loved every second of it. I loved it because it was hard and cold; because my back hurt and my fingers and toes were numb. I loved it because, in those moments of physical discomfort and misery, I found something in myself that had been missing for a long time — the knowledge that the pain was temporary and the understanding that going through it would make me appreciate our warm house and dry clothes so much more than if I had stayed inside.
That’s when I decided to do challenge myself with fasting. In years past, I would fast from whenever my last snack happened — usually in the middle of the night — to whenever we were eating dinner (or some other later-than-lunch meal). Those years were mildly uncomfortable, even though they felt grueling at the time. You know I don’t usually eat breakfast, so it was basically just skipping lunch. More of an inconvenience than a test of resolve.
When I mentioned I was going the full 24 hours this year, you seemed concerned — just like you did when I was walking in the rain — and I love you for it. I really do and I hope I didn’t come across as rude when I said I’d be okay. I wasn’t being dismissive. You showing concern only strengthened my resolve. It may seem foolish to take on these challenges — the fasting, the rucking, the getting up before dawn to read, write and reflect — in the midst of what should be maybe the scariest time in the life we’ve built together. But I think it’s in moments like this — when I find myself unemployed for the first time in a long time, when the people relying on me, on us, need us the most and there’s been such a massive disruption in what we understand as our roles, our routines and our sense of stability — that I think I need these challenges the most.
It’s not just about reminding myself that, while things feel pretty heavy right now, I (and we) are still comparatively blessed, though that certainly is a benefit. I’m not doing this to make some brave and arrogant proclamation of solitary with the suffering of others and I’m not even sure that it has all that much to do with testing my faith. After all, God has already provided us with the food in the pantry. I can go get it if I want it. We have a house and a car and the love and support of family, so it would be foolish at best and deceitful at worse to compare a voluntary period of fasting and physical discomfort with the mind-bogglingly cruel and unceasing involuntary suffering of others.
No. This isn’t about play-acting piety or self-flagellation. I want to experience the feeling of being hungry because it’s more powerful than feeling sorry for myself. I want to experience the aching back and hips, the frozen toes and tired legs so I don’t let myself feel like a victim. I want to feel the power of pursuit and the joy that comes from discomfort, because it is in these feelings that real change occurs. Changes in perspective and perception; changes in the assumptions we make about ourselves, our value, what other people think of us and what we mean to each other.
Last week I wrote one of these letters sharing my story, our story, and was blown away by the response. I’ve had so many people reach out, so many people demonstrate that they care and that they want to help. I’ve reconnected with people I haven’t talked to in a long time. I’ve met new people and been offered new connections. None of that would have happened if I had done what I am prone to doing — retreating into myself and convincing myself that I can solve everything on my own or am a victim of my own misfortune, circumstances or ineptitude.
In the midst of what we’re going through so many people have reached out to help. So many people who, like you offering me a ride, a snack and a little back rub, see our challenge as an opportunity to care. It’s almost overwhelming. And we can use the help. There’s still so much to figure out — money, insurance, how we turn a sudden change into a new way of living — but I know we will get it all figured out, which is a blessing.
Maybe the best thing that’s happened so far has been knowing that, whatever the next chapter looks like, I don’t want to go back to the way things were. I don’t want to feel disconnected. I’d much rather feel the ache of an empty stomach than an empty spirit; I’d much rather feel the pain of a sore back and legs, the numbness in my fingers and toes than the pain of feeling alone and the numbness of mistaking trudging from one day to the next for living.
People have told me, told us, that, some day, we will look back and realize that this may have been the best thing to happen to us. Well I may not know what the future holds, but when you check in on me, when people want to help, when I start feeling tempted to give up and eat something or take the ride, but push on, I realize that, in some ways, it already has been. Some times the discomfort other people see and want to help with is actually a gift you should have given yourself a long time ago.
I love you very much and promise we will get through this and come out better on the other side. In the mean time, keep checking in on me. I may not take you up on your offer to help, but I always appreciate it.
Love,
Craig
NOTE TO READERS: Thank you so much for your support. Since last week, I have been overwhelmed by the number of people who shared this with friends and family and subscribed. Please do! Sunday letters are free and meant for anyone who might find value in them. Click the “Share” button below to post in on social media or send to friends. Click “Subscribe” and each edition will be sent to your email inbox automatically. I’m hoping a little vulnerability inspires others to share their stories and feel free to reach out! Thanks so much!