Lent is often described as a journey, but most of us imagine the wrong kind of trip.
We picture something orderly and purposeful, like a planned pilgrimage with clear stops and visible progress. In reality, Lent tends to feel less like a guided retreat and more like wandering through harsh terrain. The Church gives us images of deserts and mountains for a reason. Both places are beautiful, but neither is comfortable, and neither can be rushed.
Lately I have been thinking about how perfectly those two landscapes fit together. In a funny way, Antarctica might be one of the best physical analogies for Lent. It contains vast deserts, towering mountains, and long stretches of silence and darkness. It is stark, even unsettling, yet strangely magnificent. You do not go there to be entertained. You go there to be changed.
That is what Lent is meant to do to us.
The Desert Simplifies What We Complicate
Every year I begin Lent with some sort of plan. I imagine what my prayer life will look like, which devotions I will take up, and how disciplined I will be about fasting. Somewhere in the back of my mind there is always the hope that this will be the year I finally “do Lent right.”
Then the desert shows up.
The prayer feels dry. The sacrifices feel small. The daily routine crowds in, and whatever elaborate spiritual blueprint I had imagined starts to crumble. Instead of feeling like a spiritual athlete, I usually feel like someone who packed too much for a hike and now has to carry it through sand.
Part of this comes from how complicated the Catholic world around Lent can feel. There are challenges, book lists, podcasts, and endless suggestions for how to maximize the season. None of those things are bad, but if you are wired like me, it can quickly feel overwhelming. My ADHD brain does not need twenty possible Lenten programs. It needs a path that is clear and walkable.
The Church, in her wisdom, already gave us one.
Prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are not just traditions. They are a kind of spiritual compass. They keep us moving in the right direction even when we feel lost. Saint Francis de Sales, whom I have felt drawn back to recently, writes with a gentle realism about the spiritual life. He constantly reminds his readers that holiness is not built on dramatic spiritual feats but on steady, faithful love.
The desert strips us of the illusion that we can engineer our own holiness. It brings us back to something much simpler: we need God, and we need Him every day.
The Ascent of Carmel Is Quiet but Steep
If the desert tells us where we are, the mountain tells us where we are going.
Carmelite spirituality is filled with the language of ascent. The image of Mount Carmel represents the soul’s movement toward deeper union with God, and few writers describe that climb more honestly than Saint John of the Cross. He does not pretend the ascent is inspiring or emotionally satisfying. He tells us plainly that much of it feels dark.
What he calls the Dark Night is not just a dramatic phrase. It describes a real stage in the spiritual life where God purifies the soul in ways that are hidden and often uncomfortable. Prayer becomes dry. Old consolations disappear. The person may even feel as though they are moving backward rather than forward.
Yet John insists that this darkness is not abandonment. It is preparation.
“The endurance of darkness is the preparation for great light.”
That sentence captures something essential about Lent. The season invites us into small forms of darkness, not to discourage us but to detach us from relying only on what we can see or feel. God works in hidden ways, and the climb toward Him often takes place without applause or emotional reassurance.
In this sense, the mountain of Carmel is less about heroic spiritual achievements and more about purification. God gradually frees us from our dependence on comfort, control, and visible success so that we can love Him more freely.
Dryness Is Often Where Love Grows Strongest
This is the part of Carmelite spirituality that has always spoken to me most deeply. I have felt drawn to it for years, from childhood visits to a Carmelite monastery with my mom to later being enrolled in the Brown Scapular. There is something about the quiet, hidden realism of that tradition that feels honest about how the spiritual life actually unfolds.
It does not promise constant inspiration. It promises transformation.
Saint John of the Cross makes the striking point that dryness in prayer is not necessarily a sign that something is wrong. In many cases, it is a sign that God is working more deeply than before. The soul is being invited to love Him for His sake rather than for the emotional comfort He provides.
He writes, “Never give up prayer… God often desires to see what love your soul has, and love is not tried by ease and satisfaction.”
That line feels like a direct commentary on Lent. It reminds us that perseverance itself is an act of love. When we keep praying despite distraction, keep fasting despite inconvenience, and keep trying to love others despite our fatigue, we are learning to love in a more mature way.
The climb of Carmel is made of those ordinary, persistent steps.
The Saints Walk the Desert With Us
One realization that has become clearer to me over time is how much we need guides in our spiritual life. The destination is Christ, but the saints show us the road.
This year I have felt especially drawn to deepen my friendship with Saint Francis de Sales, and at the same time I keep encountering Saint John of the Cross in my reading. Seeing both of them appear repeatedly in the books I am working through feels less like coincidence and more like a quiet reminder that we are not meant to walk the desert alone.
Lent does not require us to invent a spiritual program from scratch. It invites us to walk alongside those who have already traveled this road. Their wisdom helps steady us when our own enthusiasm fades.
John of the Cross offers simple but profound advice: “In sorrow and suffering, go straight to God with confidence, and you will be strengthened, enlightened and instructed.” That guidance is almost disarmingly straightforward, and yet it is exactly what Lent asks of us. We return to God again and again, not because we feel strong but because we know He is.
The Summit Is Easter and the Goal Is Love
It is easy to think of Lent as something we need to complete successfully, as if Easter will only be meaningful if we manage the season perfectly. Carmelite spirituality gently corrects that mindset. The goal is not performance but union, not spiritual productivity but deeper love.
Saint John of the Cross puts it with striking simplicity: “In the twilight of life, God will not judge us on our earthly possessions and human success, but rather on how much we have loved.”
That is the true summit toward which Lent leads us. Prayer softens the heart. Fasting loosens our grip on lesser things. Almsgiving stretches our love outward. Slowly, often imperceptibly, God reshapes us.
Maybe the invitation this year is not to have the most organized or impressive Lent. Maybe it is simply to keep walking through the desert, to keep climbing even when the path feels steep, and to trust that God is working in the hidden places of the soul.
If we do that, Easter will not arrive as the reward for a job well done. It will arrive as the revelation that Christ was guiding us the whole time.
Related Links
Lent 2026: The Complete Guide to the Catholic Season of Lent
St. John of the Cross: Mystic, Poet, and Reformer of the Discalced Carmelites
How the Sweetness of Our Lady of Mount Caramel Increases Your Spiritual Life
