Enough

Enough

This year for lent, my Girlfriend and I have given up driving 6 days a week. Thankfully, we haven’t given up the same 6 days, so twice a week one of us can chauffeur the other around. We’ve adopted the same discipline with banks—each of us has only 1 day out of 7 to visit a bank or ATM machine, or use a debit card or write a check. Without really realizing what we were up to, we structured this season to be an exploration of “enough.”

Before we hit the bank, we have to consider how much we should withdraw—how much will get us through to the next visit. This leads us into thinking through our calendar—what do we have planned, and how much will it cost? And looking at the week like that, a subtle and increased awareness has developed—what is the cost of our activities, not just in money, but in the energy it takes, the sense of frazzled busyness it sprouts. We’ve started thinking that our weeks are usually quite full enough.

I’ve begun to notice things about myself that aren’t so flattering—like how I’ve stopped attending to the cost of things, if I decide I “need” them. So groceries and hardware, gasoline, and clothes—I simply picked them up, and when the total rang, decided whether I could pay this out of checking or should charge it. This has led us into years of overspending.

Now, Girlfriend and I take our best guess at what will get us through the week—we have the second day as backup, though we haven’t yet run out. And now, I have to notice what I’m spending as I cruise the aisles. The impact of the spending, on the next day—and the next—it’s a whole new, should have been obvious discovery—we can get this, or go out to the movies. Our choices are shining forth a bit more clearly; sometimes they’re surprising us.

When I walk into the grocery with just 15 dollars in my pocket, I cruise the aisles in a whole new way. We are not going hungry—but I am giving up a lot of future plans. Sometimes, I just supply the meals for the day—and there’s this resonance with “daily bread”—and there’s this chance to be responsive to the hungers of the day, and the clerks down at the grocery and I are beginning to get friendly, as we see each other more.

Not driving on most days—and cold days these have been—likewise invites me to consider if I’ve got enough already. And again, enough is not just focused on the products. This week, for example, I found I couldn’t face another day of peddling through the frigid wind. Girlfriend took on some grocery duty, on her way home from work.

She’s not the only one who’s helped. We’ve taken rides from friends and family, in the cold or rain. And we rely a lot upon the infrastructure of our community—the bike trails and the busses and the metro. It’s been a pleasure to discover just how easy it is to get around, around here, without driving. I’ve also noticed, on the metro and the bus, the kindnesses of strangers in a way that I don’t notice in my car. When somebody in traffic slows to let another auto in, more often than not, I’m irked about it. But when someone stands to let a pregnant woman sit down on the train—even if this nudges me a bit—I’m happy at the courtesy. And on the bus the other day, I watched as several people picked up the mittens, toys, a hat a restless kid kept tossing on the floor. The kid and I were not the only ones delighted by the game.

I’ve chosen, during lent, to read the prescribed scriptures every day at noon. I have to set alarms—and several. The first one chimes 10 minutes early, and nearly every day I have a silent argument with self. Every day, it seems I’m just too busy to stop short—that if I push it 15 minutes or an hour, I’ll get something accomplished. I’ll reach some finish line.

I’ve begun to lose these arguments—I’ve begun to say “enough.” Enough of thinking that my tasks are each so critical. Enough of thinking I can’t take 40 days to try a new routine. Enough of what I’m doing, for the moment, for this morning. It’s been interesting to note the persistence of resistance—every day I cringe at the soft chime, and every day I start the argument again. As I’ve begun to lose, though, I’ve noticed that just 10 minutes in another room, reading a few verses of the Bible, shifts my feeling toward the day. I come back to my activity refreshed—and sometimes I don’t come back at all. I find I’ve had enough of it, and move onto something new for afternoon. I remember that my project will be waiting the next morning—and I see the afternoon more freely, like the gift of time it is.

It’s a funny, structured, sacrificing season that we’re moving through. These limits bring these freedoms, unflattering discoveries, challenges and sweet surprises. It’s not enough—it’s plenty—and we’re only halfway there.