Before the Celebration

As we move toward Easter, I’ve been thinking about how much our culture loves celebration — the joy, the color, the music, the relief. Resurrection Sunday feels bright and triumphant. But before Easter comes Lent.

Before celebration comes preparation.

This is the first year I have practiced Lent. It feels quieter to me. Slower. It is a season of reflection, repentance, and reorientation. Forty days of remembering our limits. Forty days of noticing what distracts us, what we cling to, what we depend on besides God. It mirrors Jesus’ forty days in the wilderness — a season not of public miracles, but of private testing and strengthening.

I don’t naturally gravitate toward preparation seasons. I like productivity. I like movement. I like finishing tasks so I can finally sit down and feel accomplished. As an intern at the Study Center, my days are often full, and I find myself managing time carefully — trying to complete what needs to get done so I can move on to homework or reading.

But Lent gently disrupts that rhythm.

It reminds me that growth rarely happens in the rush. Depth doesn’t form in the noise. The joy of Easter morning only means something because of the honesty of the wilderness, the weight of Good Friday, the waiting of Holy Saturday.

Preparation is not wasted time. It is what makes celebration possible.

In this season, I’m asking myself different questions: What needs pruning? Where have I been hurried or distracted? What would it look like to slow down enough to let God shape my heart before I look for the joy of resurrection?

Working at the Study Center has shown me how meaningful intentional rhythms can be — conversation, study, prayer, presence. Lent feels like stepping more fully into that intentionality. It’s an invitation to live more awake. To clear space. To let anticipation build not through frenzy, but through faithfulness.

Easter is coming. But first, there is preparation.

And maybe that preparation — the quiet work of turning our hearts, being present, being interruptible — is the gift itself.