That was my advice … to myself. I wasn’t going to allow Lent this year to pass me by without seizing it as an opportunity.

Like many busy people, I frequently try to wedge my spiritual activities, times of worship and visits with God into whenever there might be spare moments. I’d prefer to give my time to God first, designing the day around that.

In an ideal day, I’d say Morning Prayer as soon as I get up. Attend daily Mass more often. Thank God mindfully throughout the day. Say Evening Prayer after dinner, before turning on the TV. Read from my Divine Intimacy book, right before saying Night Prayer, then explicitly meditating on those thoughts. Then, for Lent, adding a couple of new brief contemplations: in the morning on the Stations of the Cross and in the afternoon after reading a short bit from St. Teresa of Calcutta’s “I Thirst” devotional.

Nothing heroic. Not counting Mass, maybe a little more than an hour out of every 24. Small surrender in a penitential season of sacrifice.

Still … ambitious? Sure, though I’ve been doing much of that already. Why not align the activity and savor it with greater delight? A more hopeful Lent could be the fruit.

Yet facts of life have a way of seeping into our time of prayer and meditation. Hope and joy aren’t always evident in the initial returns.

I struggled to sleep one recent night. Instead of wallowing in frustration, I embraced the time as a blessing. I reflected on what many Catholics regard as a uniquely Lenten experience. I mused on the Stations of the Cross.

As usually happens with me during this particular prayer, my spirit raced to the mental image of Jesus lying prone on the ground underneath that heavy tree. Sure enough, it both fascinated and pained my spirit.

I ponder the third, seventh and ninth stations quite a bit, when the Lord was dragging that cross toward the site of His impending death and fell beneath its weight not once, not twice, but thrice. He was Jesus Christ, Son of God and Savior of the world, and He fell down.

Jesus. Fell. Down. Incredible.

Then, each time … He rose. Jesus. Got. Up.

When I fall — and it happens a whole lot — the Lord’s example inspires me. That insight happened again in the middle of this restless night.

I had a vision of that first fall and saw Jesus look up to see what was immediately ahead — His beloved mother, whom He was about to encounter; a stranger (Simon) about to provide some assistance, a woman (Veronica) who would offer Him loving compassion.

I had a vision of that second fall and saw Jesus look ahead earnestly at the weeping women of Jerusalem, loving friends who represented the very people He came to save, all of us.

When the world says, “Give up,”/Hope whispers, “Try it one more time.”

— Author Unknown

Those people supplied added strength for Him to stand again. The Son of Man kept falling; the Son of God kept getting up. At least, He fell the first two times.

My vision in those dark moments in my bedroom revealed something about the ninth station, that third time He went down on His knees.

Someone pushed Jesus. Shoved Him, actually. Shoved Him intentionally and did it hard.

That third fall always gets me. How did He ever get up that time? Exhausted, in excruciating pain, feeling abandoned, knowing what was next. He looked ahead this time and knew He had reached the destination. The soldiers would strip Him naked. There were the nails for His hands and feet. Surely something screamed to stay down, give up.

Ah, but … He rose. Jesus. Got. Up.

You know, technically, the Lord fell a fourth time. Up on the cross. The Son of Man died. And you know, technically, He was pushed that time, too. By every son and daughter of a man. By all of us. By me, and by you.

And, three days later … Jesus. Rose. Up. The hope of a joyful, fruitful Lent — for all of us. An opportunity for true renewal.

Eisenbath is a parishioner at St. Cletus Parish in St. Charles.