The Spirit is Willing, but Geera Pork makes me weak

Denise Scott

The ashes were barely on my forehead when my Lenten resolve met its greatest adversary: my mother’s geera pork. Only two days earlier I had made bold promises of sacrifice, discipline, and spiritual renewal. I was ready to walk with Christ through the desert for 40 days. But out of nowhere the rich aroma of garlic, pepper,  chadon beni, geera and sizzling pork began preaching a far more persuasive sermon. And in that moment, I discovered a humbling truth about my Lenten journey: the spirit may indeed be willing but geera pork made me weak.

I started Ash Wednesday with the zeal of a saint. I had my ashes, and a list of sacrifices so ambitious that even a nun told me to take it down a notch. I wasn’t just giving up meat; I was giving up complaining, Rituals Coffee, and “liming” on social media. I was also going to drink more water and go to Adoration daily. I was going to be the most hydrated, serene, and holy version of myself.

By Friday morning, the serenity had evaporated. It turns out that when you remove caffeine from a Publicist’s diet, you don’t get a saint; you get a very confused, very irritable person who can’t remember where they put their car keys or why they agreed to organise three events in one month.

Then came the Great Saltfish Sacrifice.

How much saltfish ah go eat! And how do I eat a slice of fried fish with my dhal and rice when my mother just cooked a wicked curry duck? Why she so?  Why is this happening to me?

I’ve also realised that my no-complaining fast is the hardest of all. Complaining is practically part of my job description. It is a vital project management tool. Also have you met my father?  I decided by day 3 that no complaining would be on my to-do list for next year Lent.

Every morning, I wake up and think, “Today is the day. Today, I will be the embodiment of the Stations of the Cross.” And every afternoon, usually around half five in the afternoon when the energy slump hits and my mother decides to offer me some beef pelau,  I find myself negotiating with God like a defense attorney. “Technically, Lord, I started my fast early this morning and beef is not the meat. I meant, I really meant chicken, and if I don’t eat now, I might die, so I could eat this now right?

While I’ve spent the last ten days feeling like a Lenten Loser, a quiet realisation hit me during a rare moment of stillness at Adoration this week.

I often treat Lent like a spiritual CrossFit challenge, a test of willpower where I win if  I reach Easter without cracking (I rarely ever win by the way). But my failure has revealed the true point: Lent isn’t about our ability to be perfect; it’s about acknowledging our desperate need for grace.

Every time I reach for the thing I said I wouldn’t touch or lose my patience when I promised to be kind, I am reminded that I cannot fix myself through sheer grit. If I could be perfect on my own, the sacrifice of the Cross wouldn’t have been necessary.

My stumbles this year are actually a gift. They strip away the ego of performing my faith and leave me with the humble truth that I am a work in progress. The lesson of the desert isn’t that we should never be hungry or tired; it’s that when we are at our weakest, we finally stop relying on our own strength and start leaning on His.

So, I am starting over again.  I’ll keep trying even if I keep failing. And I’ll keep showing up not because I’m a superstar of self-discipline, but because I’m a beloved, messy child of God who needs a Saviour every single day.