I have to remind myself of that every single year.
As Lent progresses, I catch myself doing something a little silly: I start “grading” my heart. I slip right back into teacher mode with an imaginary rubric, a mental checklist, the whole thing. I begin evaluating how “prepared” or “holy” I feel, usually landing somewhere in between needs improvement and extra credit required.
But God isn’t standing over us with a clipboard. He isn’t tallying our spiritual slip-ups or tracking perfect attendance in prayer. He isn’t looking for performance. He’s inviting us into relationship. He doesn’t want something from you this Lent; He has something for you.
As a teacher, it’s natural that I think in grades and progress reports. I love seeing my students grow, so improvement is always on my mind. But I know that a grade never tells the whole story. A grade can’t measure joy, resilience, compassion, or the quiet victories no one sees. And the same holds true for us adults (even the ones of us still pretending we have adulthood figured out). The whole person matters: body, mind, and soul.
Lent is an invitation to be formed, not evaluated. Lent is not a grade.
Yes, we are called to pray, fast, and give alms.
Yes, Lent asks something of us.
But the point of those practices isn’t to make us miserable or irritable.
God is not asking you to snap at your spouse because you are fasting from your morning coffee. He’s not asking you to drive to work in silence, fuming about the worship playlist you “should” be listening to instead. He’s not asking you to scowl at everyone in the kitchen because you gave up snacking and now every crunch you hear feels like a personal attack. He’s not asking you to pout through lunch just because your coworkers are getting Chick‑fil‑A and you’re not.
He’s not asking us to live forty days in a state of holy frustration.
If the thing you’re “giving up” is leading you to more sin, more impatience, or more distance from God, then maybe that sacrifice isn’t bringing you where He wants you to go.
Our Lenten practices are meant to carve out space for Christ to move. They’re meant to soften our hearts, not harden them. They’re meant to draw us toward Him, not push us further into guilt, perfectionism, or discouragement.
Here’s the question that I’ve been coming back to: Am I trying to control my Lent, or am I trying to receive it?
Receiving requires trust—real, daily, unclenched‑fist trust. Control looks like micromanaging every sacrifice, pushing myself into spiritual burnout, or treating Lent like a personal improvement plan with benchmarks and gold stars. Control makes Lent about me.
But Lent is not a self‑improvement project.
It’s not a spiritual performance review.
It’s not a benchmark for sanctity.
Lent is grace, forty days of it.
A slow, gentle turning of the heart.
A sacred undoing of the noise.
A season of grace, not grades.
Let us then let ourselves be guided through it well.
Mary, Mother of God and mother of my heart, stay close to me this Lent.
Help me slow down enough to notice where God is trying to speak.
Show me how to loosen my grip on control, and let my heart be softened instead of evaluated.
Walk with me as I learn to trust the grace God is offering.
Teach us how to receive, how to trust, and how to let your Son form us in the quiet places.
Stay close to us as we walk these forty days,
and guide our hearts back to the One who loves us.
Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash
