I’ve been waiting six weeks to say this.
Now I can’t.
See, way back at the beginning of Lent, a friend rather provocatively stated his Lenten pseudo-fast. Of course, I immediately needed to mimic it. I found enough dignity to hold off by rerouting my energies into crafting and anticipating my end-of-Lent proclamation: Justin Jones is giving up Lent for Easter.
Unfortunately, I learned something during Lent.
I came out of Easter backwards. I’m walking away from Easter, on a path leading through Lent. Put more directly—I’m enjoying new life, and realizing what makes it new.
Confession of the day: Despite all the talk about it, I didn’t get the cross. Still don’t really, but I’m getting closer.
And I came at it backwards, really. See, over the last few years, I’ve gotten a better handle on what that new life is about. Not that I am in any way indicating I live it. But I am understanding better all the time—constantly moving toward it. It’s been nice.
It didn’t take long to see the distinction between my mind and my body, however. My knowledge and my doage. So that had to change. But it didn’t. No matter how much I thought about changing, I didn’t. I learned more than seemed appropriate on topics foundational to life. Aristotle was failing me. Is failing me.
Then it all came crashing home.
That’s why it’s called death.