When the Desert Feels Cold: A Mid-Lent Reflection

When the Desert Feels Cold: A Mid-Lent Reflection

By Matthew Chicoine, Contributing Writer

Somewhere along the path of Lent, almost without noticing, we arrive at the middle.

Ash Wednesday feels distant now. The resolve we carried into the season, clear and purposeful, even hopeful, has softened. What once felt new has become familiar. What once felt intentional now feels heavy.

This is often the moment when the journey changes.

Not outwardly, perhaps. Our routines may remain the same. We still pray. We still fast. We still try. But inwardly, something shifts. The consolation fades. The clarity blurs. And what remains is something quieter and often more difficult: perseverance.

A Desert We Didn’t Expect

Recently, in my classroom, I was teaching my third and fourth grade students about Antarctica. We were working on writing, learning how to describe a place not just with facts, but with imagination.

One of the details that surprised them most was this: Antarctica is a desert.

Not a desert of sand and heat, but of ice and wind. It receives very little precipitation. It is vast, barren, and unforgiving. A place where the cold cuts deeply and the landscape offers little comfort.

It struck me, as I explained this to them, how fitting an image this is for the spiritual life.

Because there are seasons when our interior life feels much the same.

The Cold of the Interior Life

There are moments, sometimes long stretches, when prayer feels dry. When God seems distant. When the things that once brought peace now feel empty.

Saint John of the Cross called this the dark night, a time of spiritual aridity where we feel stripped of consolation. Not because God has abandoned us, but because He is drawing us deeper.

Yet in the moment, it rarely feels that way.

It feels like standing in a frozen wilderness, the wind pressing against you from every side. It feels like silence. Like distance. Like effort without reward.

And if we are honest, this is often where we find ourselves in the middle of Lent.

The Long Climb

Lent has always been a kind of ascent.

But no climb is felt more acutely than the middle.

At the beginning, there is energy. At the end, there is anticipation. But in the middle, there is only the climb itself. Step after step, without the excitement of starting or the relief of finishing.

This is where many are tempted to stop.

To loosen the fast. To shorten the prayer. To quietly set aside the intentions we began with such sincerity.

Not out of defiance, but out of fatigue.

When Progress Feels Hidden

Part of the difficulty is that spiritual growth rarely feels like progress.

We expect clarity. We expect consolation. We expect to feel closer to God in ways we can recognize. But often, what God is doing is hidden beneath the surface.

Like a traveler crossing Antarctica, we may not see landmarks or signs of advancement. The landscape looks the same. The effort feels constant. And yet, with each step, we are being changed.

Purified. Strengthened. Detached.

The fasting that once felt sharp now becomes steady. The prayer that once felt fervent becomes faithful. And while it may feel like less, it is often more.

Because it is no longer sustained by feeling, but by love.

The Grace of Endurance

It is here that the words of Saint Catherine of Siena speak with particular clarity:

“Nothing great is ever achieved without much enduring.”

Lent, in many ways, is a school of endurance.

Not endurance for its own sake, but endurance rooted in love. The kind that chooses to remain. The kind that continues, even when the path feels long and the heart feels tired.

Perseverance is not dramatic. It is quiet. It is hidden. It looks like showing up again in prayer. It looks like continuing the fast. It looks like turning back to God, even when we feel far from Him.

And this, perhaps, is where the deepest transformation happens.

Fixing Our Eyes on the Horizon

We are not wandering aimlessly through this desert.

We know where the path leads.

Easter is not an abstract hope. It is a promised reality. The Resurrection stands at the end of this journey, not as a distant possibility, but as a certainty.

And so we continue.

We fix our hearts and minds on Christ. We seek Him where He has made Himself present:

• in the stillness of Adoration
  
• in the mercy of Confession
  
• in the strength of the Eucharist
  

These are not simply practices to maintain. They are the places where Christ meets us in the desert.

Where He sustains us. Where He strengthens us. Where He reminds us that we do not walk this path alone.

The Quiet Victory of the Middle

The middle of Lent is not a failure point.

It is an invitation.

An invitation to move beyond the surface of our spiritual life and into something deeper. To love God not only when we feel Him, but when we do not. To continue the climb, even when the summit is hidden from view.

Because it is here, in the cold, in the silence, and in the endurance, that something lasting is being formed.

Not a fleeting feeling, but a faithful heart.

And when Easter comes, as it always does, we will see that every step, especially the difficult ones, has led us closer to Him.

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Matthew Chicoine is a left-handed cradle Catholic who enjoys reading everything Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Chesterton and is also an avid comic book fan. He is married to his wife Jennifer and has four children. Matthew’s favorite saints include Athanasius, Catherine of Siena, Teresa of Avila, Philip Neri and John of the Cross. Discover more of his Catholic content by visiting thesimplecatholic.blog.