“God means to fill each of you with what is good, so cast out what is bad! If He wishes to fill you with honey and you are full of sour wine, where is the honey to go? The vessel must be emptied of its contents and then cleansed.” — St. Augustine of Hippo

Recently I had a conversation with two friends who were lamenting all the misery in their lives — years of struggles consumed them. They couldn’t seem to get their heads above water no matter what they did. Tired of it all, they longed for a magic formula to change their lot.

Both are people with whom I generally refrain from discussing religion, because I know it makes them uncomfortable. But this day it was impossible for me to keep silent. It’s agonizing seeing others go through tough times, especially when you’ve been in their shoes. What’s more difficult is to have found a way to rise above and then be expected to hold back from sharing the secret of your success.

I told the two they weren’t going to like my advice, but I promised it was as close to a magic formula as they were going to get. “Surrender,” I said. I owe every bit of what I have — material blessings, a wonderful husband, six great kids, good health, amazing friendships, peace and happiness — to the fact I’ve struggled against self and allowed God’s will to prevail. I tried to explain that we remain unhappy and frustrated when we insist on things God sees as not being ultimately good for us. (Because he knows what makes us happy and can see things we don’t.)

I’ve insisted on my will most of my young adult life. Unfortunately, I come from a bloodline of stubborn pride. Yes, Italians can cook like nobody’s business, love with passion unleashed, and embrace all things beautiful; but our biggest downfall is our deep-seated pride. Plainly, we don’t like people telling us what to do — but, then again, who does? Pride is the one thing that most gets in the way of God’s plan for our ultimate prosperity.

Reaching the point of realizing we are not in control is a difficult process. We want to think we are, and we’ll just about kill ourselves to prove it, but we really aren’t. When I finally figured out my will was no match against God and surrendered my way in order to do things his way, the frustration turned into joy, and my life began to be blessed with many wonderful things.

God often allows our free will to bring us to the point of being in such a big mess that we have no other choice than to turn to him. He can, and will, fix all of the tattered fringes of our screw-ups and somehow weave them into a most beautiful garment — if we allow him.

Lent is a perfect time to begin again. One of the most wonderful things we have as Catholics is the sacrament of reconciliation, also referred to as confession. Here we can empty and scrub out the vessel of our soul to make room for Our Lord. At our baptism we were marked as sons and daughters of God. Our souls were washed clean of original sin, made pure, and filled with the light of Christ.

Our Protestant brothers and sisters also acknowledge the beauty of baptism and rejoice in washing the soul clean. But unlike them, left to carry the sins they make after being baptized, we have recourse to the sacrament of reconciliation, which gives us the opportunity to once again be reconciled with God and return to that same state of grace given to us in our baptism. And we have this opportunity available to us as often as we need or desire it.

Unfortunately, this sacrament often gets a bad rap. Many old-time Catholics have memories of going to confession with stern priests who made them feel so awful they decided not to go back. Some don’t go because they are afraid God will ask too much of them — afraid that if they admit to a sin, they’ll have to give it up and miss out on something they think God couldn’t possibly replace with something better. Others refuse to believe they are real sinners and think they don’t need to go. Still others decide not to air their dirty laundry to anyone, not even the one person who, acting in the place of Christ, can relieve them of the agony of carrying that ugly load. It’s too bad, because this gift is meant for our benefit and, if taken advantage of regularly, is a source of joy.

When my children were young, I never wanted them to feel that confession was about reminding them how bad they were. I wanted them to look at it as an opportunity for having another chance to get it right: a clean slate with God. I took them out in the backyard with one of my glass vases and explained how our soul can be likened to a vase.

At baptism our soul is filled with sanctifying grace, the kind that lives in us and unites us to God’s will. I filled the vase with clean water to signify being filled with his grace. Taking a flashlight, I put it against the glass to show how the light reflects through and out the other side, spilling into the surrounding area. I explained that Christ is the light we receive at baptism and we, like the vase filled with pristine water, are made to reflect his light onto others, dispelling the darkness of this world. This is the mission of every Christian.

But we are human. And in our humanness, we sin — a lot. We are selfish and don’t always want God’s way; we want ours, which, little by little, diminishes the grace needed to be in union with him.

If we continually told our best friend we don’t want or need his help and advice and to go away, would he want to hang around? Not mine. He’d tire of me not heeding his good counsel as I continued to complain about wallowing in my mess and eventually leave me in my pride to fend for myself. In order to maintain a close friendship, we need to be open to the wisdom of those who care about us and careful not to sever ties. If, now and then, we hurt our friend, we should be eager to apologize and show him how much we love him by being a better friend. It’s no different with our relationship with God.

I explained to the children all of our sins can be compared to dirt. I gave each of them a spoon and told them to scoop up some dirt and empty it into the water. Whenever we sin, it’s like taking a spoonful of dirt and sprinkling it into the vase filled with crystal-clear water.

Some sins are a teaspoonful: those times when we get angry or lose patience; when we’re lazy, complain, or choose not to do the things we know we should be doing. They are small acts of selfishness. Others are a tablespoonful: things like lying, cheating, or causing others emotional or physical pain. These are the kind of sins that clearly show our lack of obedience, love, and respect for those around us.

And there are the serving-spoonfuls: These are the serious sins. We call them mortal sins because they separate us from the love of God by cutting off the umbilical cord of grace. Three things need to be present for a sin to be of this caliber: 1) The matter must be grave. 2) The person committing the sin must have full knowledge of the immorality or evil involved in it. 3) He or she must willingly consent to commit it. These sins include murder, rape, incest, perjury, adultery, and of the like. In a sense, these sins are the kind where we blatantly say, “No, God! I will not serve you!” At this point we have walked away from sanctifying grace by our own accord and, in a sense, have undergone a spiritual death. We have told God we don’t want his help or his ways, and we are our own master.

As the children emptied their spoons into the water, they watched it grow cloudier with each spoonful. The more that was added, the less the light was reflected. I explained that the teaspoon and tablespoonfuls, over time, could eventually make that water pretty murky, and the light would have a harder time shining through, which meant others would have a difficult time seeing the Jesus in our souls. Eventually, they could see the light from the flashlight was only a small spot on the glass with no reflective properties at all.

Finally, they dumped the serving-spoonful in the water, and it turned the whole thing into a big clump of mud. Applying the flashlight again to the glass, we could not see any of the light whatsoever. The children, wide-eyed asked, “What happens if we get mud? Will we never be able to have Jesus shine in us again?” I smiled.

God knew when he created us that we would refuse him on many levels. He knew in our ignorance of his master plan and in our lack of trust we would want to take control, and in doing so would be the cause of our own unhappiness. This is why he gave us the sacrament of reconciliation — so we can be reconciled with Love over and over again.

I flipped over the vase, took a spoon and scooped out all the dirt. I told the children this is what happens when we go to confession. We empty out all the yuck — even the mud! Then I grabbed a towel, scrubbed out the residue, and made the vase clean again. This represented the words of the priest when he tells us our sins have been forgiven. Finally, I filled the vase back up with fresh water and told them this is how our souls looks after confession. We are filled again with sanctifying grace, reunited with the love of God and able to share that love and light with others.

Because of this childhood lesson, our kids have grown to have a healthy view of being right with God. They’ve come to love this sacrament, and they understand how good it feels to get a clean slate and begin again. They recognize when they are in the state of grace, it’s easier to make better decisions, avoid temptation, and follow God’s plan. And the reward for their humility and obedience — blessings galore!

Here’s where St. Augustine’s quote comes in. If we want God to reside in us — if we want to allow his will to take us on a path to happiness and joy — we need to clean out the mud that takes up space in the vessel of our soul. How can we expect Christ to want to be present if we are living in a space occupied by things offensive to him? We wouldn’t want to live in a house packed to the ceiling with dirt, feces, garbage, and all kinds of defilement, yet we somehow think that kind of a home is befitting of the King of Kings! When you love someone, you give them your best. If we’ve invited Jesus to live within us, we should do our best to make his home worthy of his presence.

During this time of Lent, we are reminded of our lot by the ashes we received on our foreheads on Ash Wednesday. This is an outward sign of our coming to the realization that we are not in control. The fasting and bumped-up efforts to be there for others have a twofold effect: they give us an opportunity to let go of the attachments we have to worldly things — those things that often lead us into sin and weigh us down — and they shift our focus to reliance on Christ, uniting us to his suffering so that our capacity to love increases.

Our Lord does not want us living in the misery we bring upon ourselves. He doesn’t want us breaking that umbilical cord of sanctifying grace, because he has so much more in store for us than our paltry, selfish ways of feeling good. He wants us truly happy, at peace, and filled with honey!

As for my friends, I shared the Scripture passage revealed to me years ago when I could not get my head above water: “For I know well the plans I have in mind for you, plans for your welfare and not for woe, so as to give you a future of hope. When you call me, and come and pray to me, I will listen to you. When you look for me, you will find me. Yes, when you seek me with all your heart, I will let you find me and I will change your lot.” — Jeremiah 29:11-14.

I asked them to trust me. This was the magic formula that changed my lot. Seek him with all your heart. His generosity cannot be outdone.

Easter is the time of new beginning and new life. Lent gives us an opportunity to prepare for this new beginning by making the effort to reconcile with God, especially if we’ve got mud in our vase. It’s the time to relinquish control, give up the pride — especially if life seems extra hard right now — and clean out our vessels, giving it our all to put aside self and seek him.

If at Easter you have a smile on your face and peace in your heart, and blessings begin to fall into place, don’t thank me. Thank Our Lord, because it’s him, not me, calling you.