Reflections on Lent: A Journey Through Texas

It’s the middle of Lent. Lent is a 40-day, solemn Christian season of fasting, prayer, and repentance that begins on Ash Wednesday and ends before Easter. It honors Jesus’s 40 days in the wilderness. Common practices include giving up luxuries. I grew up as a Presbyterian and knew about Lent, but didn’t practice the rituals.

These days, I still don’t practice Lent, except to give a couple of hours each morning and respond to Lenten writing prompts. I recently returned from a long drive through the Longhorn State and didn’t forego eating beef.

Jeremiah writes that those who trust in flesh are like shrubs in the desert, unable to see relief when it comes.

Desert language is appropriate for Lent.

What gives me relief is a change of scenery.

A few hundred miles between my real world in Boulder and wherever I happen to be, life continues in Colorado without me. The inbox fills. The deadlines creep closer.

When I leave town, I get to step into someone else’s ordinary life.

I’m in Texas on my way to Galveston to shoot footage for a documentary. The first night, Amarillo was a seven-hour drive. I had to stop at the Big Texan Steak Ranch, which also has a motel where I stayed, and is also home to the 72-ounce steak challenge. Finish it in an hour, and it’s free. Fail, and you pay $72.

I didn’t attempt it. The steak would have eaten me.

Instead, I listened to five men and a woman next to me, who talked in thick drawls about their trade show. Diners are seated family style at long tables. I asked the server how many challengers down the steak with all the fixings. Oddly, she didn’t know. Curious, I found out 100,000 determined eaters try, and 10,000 get a free steak.

The next morning and seven hours later, I pulled into Fredericksburg, with its German storefronts and tidy sidewalks. There were vineyards around the area, and I ended up at the Wine Country Inn. No wine tasting, though. I like to watch the local TV news. The lead story was the Senate “Democrat” primary. Mild-mannered James Talarico defeated sound-bite firebrand, Jasmine Crockett. Meanwhile, Senator John Cornyn eked out a plurality over ultra-right challenger Ken Paxton.

Same country as Colorado. Different political weather systems. Speaking of weather systems, it’s rained nonstop since I’ve been in Texas, compared to Boulder’s drought. I’m on the Watch Duty app that sends me notices about natural disasters and notified me about a fire near Heil Ranch, a few miles north of Boulder.

Last night I ate hockbraten at Altdorf Biergarten, bacon-wrapped meatloaf smothered under mushroom gravy. My server was from Germany, with an accent thick enough to make me feel like I was in Frankfurt. I’m not a devotee of German food, but it was pretty good, very earthy.

This morning, I’ll be back on the highway, dodging flatbeds carrying wind turbine blades, wide oil field equipment parts, and enormous John Deere discs creeping down the road with occasional passing lanes.

I’ve been catching up on my audiobooks. I listened to “First Frost” by Craig Johnson, which has a Japanese incarceration camp as a backdrop. Now I’m listening to one called “White Trash” about the origins of the white and gender class systems in America that dates back to indentured servitude in England in the 16th and 17th centuries.

Travel slows down my life. Audiobooks fill the void I would otherwise fill with thoughts about whatever might be happening back home.

When Jeremiah warns about trusting in flesh, I wonder whether my leaving town is a pilgrimage or an anesthetic escape with different scenery?

Distance reminds me that the world is larger than my preoccupations. It places me inside other people’s lives and places.

No matter how many miles I add between Boulder and Galveston, I still bring myself along for the ride.

No matter where I go, there I am.

On Saturday, I turn around and head back to Boulder.

This time I’m taking a different route home.

Maybe that’s the point. Lent asks for reorientation. The inbox will be filled with the usual Spams and Scams. I still have to finish a grant application, but I will have arrived changed. How that looks, I don’t know yet.

Time does slow down. That extra space gives me a place to learn how to return.

Small Ways to Make a Big Difference in 2026

If you watch the news every day, you’d think the world is spinning out of control and that life in America couldn’t possibly be worse. Chaos is everywhere. Nothing is working. Everything is broken.

Here’s something worth remembering as we step into 2026. The news isn’t a record of normal life. It’s a record of exceptions.

Roughly 100,000 airplane flights land safely every single day. No one reports on that. What makes the headlines is the one flight that nearly misses another by a few thousand feet. One rare, frightening moment becomes the story, while the ordinary success disappears into the atmosphere. I was on a flight that made an emergency landing in Oklahoma City after a cockpit fire.

We consume the world the same way.

Some people struggle, some far more than most. The economic imbalance in this country is real and long-standing. The top 10% of Americans hold nearly 60% of the nation’s wealth and control over 93% of the stock market. Meanwhile, the bottom 50%, most of us are included here, share only about 2.5 to 3% of total wealth.

That gap didn’t start yesterday, and it isn’t shocking anymore, which is exactly why it rarely makes headlines.

What doesn’t get covered is the homeless family struggling day after day, because that story has become tragically ordinary. Ironically, the moment that family does make the news is when a Good Samaritan shows up with a check and a camera, because that visible act of generosity is the exception.

I know my life isn’t newsworthy. I do well enough to get by. I’m not worried about myself. I’ll admit that I often feel stuck when I wonder how I can actually make life better for someone else in 2026.

I don’t have thousands of dollars to give away. I’m not going to trend on social media for doing the right thing. Maybe that’s the point.

What One Person Can Do in 2026

Making a difference doesn’t require a headline. It requires consistency. Here are a few ways I’m thinking about showing up quietly and imperfectly in the year ahead:

  • Support locally and repeatedly. On “Giving Tuesday,” I donate $5 to a bunch of small nonprofits. I either know someone who works there or have received services from them. Small and consistent giving matters more than one dramatic gesture. The image is from a night the Bethel Methodist Church volunteers served dinner at the Boulder Homeless Shelter.
  • Pay attention to proximity. The people who need help most are often the ones closest to us, like our neighbors, coworkers, and families in our community. Noticing is the first step.
  • Use skills, not just money. Skills such as teaching, writing, mentoring, repairing, and organizing can improve life in ways cash alone doesn’t.
  • Tell better stories. Share stories of resilience and dignity, rather than those about crisis. Remind people that struggle doesn’t erase humanity.
  • Vote with time and intention. Where we spend our time, our energy, and who wins our votes, quietly shapes the future more than outrage ever will.
  • Be a steady presence. Showing up again and again, especially when no one is watching, is how trust is built.

Widen your lens 2026

The start of a new year is when we usually turn inward. We resolve to lose weight, get a better job, quit gambling, drink less, and do more yoga. Those are good, necessary goals. Taking care of ourselves matters.

I don’t know anyone who truly wishes ill will on others. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t, at least in principle, want the world to be better than it is. Most of us are overwhelmed and not cruel. I get tired. I’m unsure where to begin.

In 2026, here’s where I’m starting.

Do good, and do no harm.

If you can help, help.
If you can’t help, don’t hurt.
If you’re unsure what to do, choose kindness over indifference.

I know that I can’t fix everything in the world. I doubt that I’ll grab a headline or a viral Facebook moment.

As we move into 2026, my hope for myself and for anyone reading this is that we strive to improve our own lives while remembering we’re not alone in this. Each of us needs to make one choice today that leaves someone else a little better off than they were before they crossed your path.

It might look like patience.
It might look like listening.
It might look like showing up when it’s inconvenient.

Those choices aren’t newsworthy, but they make life livable.

That’s a future worth building.

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