I stole my idea for Lent from my friend Jessica. I am not sure what resorting to theft says about my mortal soul, but there you have it. And I am not sure what it says about me to tell you that I love Lent, which can charitably be described as the midlife crisis of the liturgical calendar. I enjoy the introspection, the reflection, the resolution, and even the struggle. But a good Lenten covenant can be hard to come by. Quit cursing? Not just no, but . . . well, you get the idea. Give up caffeine? I ask you: how would I survive? I exercise religiously, I rarely drink, I walk and bicycle many places, and I recycle. I have narrowed my 46 year-old life to a select set of small and cherished vices, and while I get the point of Lent, I am loathe to let them go.

So I read with interest the plan of my friend Jessica. Her mother (whom I had never met) died recently. I had the great good fortune of attending her funeral, which is an odd way to put it until you consider this: The service was a primer in how to live. She was eulogized by her other daughter, who spoke of her love of reading, education, college football, the small pleasures of life, writing letters, and (most of all) her family. After the service, the family encouraged us to enjoy a feast of her favorites: good red wine, red velvet cake, and Dove Promises (the small chocolates with a message in the wrapper). So I did. I have no doubt her family mourns her death — she was a remarkable woman — but I also have no doubt that she led such a full and meaningful life that her family has a host of warm memories to sustain them. Her funeral was a few hours of my life on a hot Saturday afternoon, but I think about it more often than you might imagine.

When I mentioned that Jessica’s mother loved to write letters, I did not make clear how much Jessica’s mother loved to write letters. (To give you but a sample: Jessica received a letter from her mother every day of her freshman year of college, and Jessica’s new son received a weekly birthday card from his grandmother.) So to celebrate her mother’s memory, Jessica announced that for each of the 40 days of Lent, she would write a letter to someone who had inspired her or made her happy or positively affected her life.

Whereupon I promptly stole the idea.

It has been an interesting endeavor. At first, I thought about writing down the names of 40 people and ticking them off as I wrote, but it seemed too confining. Instead I sit with my box of stationery and write whoever springs to mind. (I then add their name to a list.) I have discovered that it is easier to write a person who did some discrete good for me — for instance, I wrote a choir director who hounded me to sing after almost 30 years of not singing, which brought an unexpected amount of happiness to my life. It is easy to memorialize that event. It was far harder to write my best friend, the one I love like a brother. How do you distill that into a letter? What do you omit? What do you include? And if your best friend doesn’t know this already, what kind of friend are you? But I put something on paper, even if it was inadequate. I have yet to write the even smaller circle of people I love the most, the ones who make my heart expand. Words seem inadequate to tell your children just how their birth changed your life forever, and your husband just how his very presence is your bedrock. And yes, I have felt a little silly sometimes writing people and putting it all out there — the ripple of an unexpected kindness that they did for me — but I figure — I hope — that the delight of a personal letter outweighs any awkwardness on my part.

When I started a week ago, 40 letters seemed like a burden, a terrible demand on my time and my ability to think of that many people to write. As I have disciplined myself to write them, the letters have become an almost insignificant time commitment in my day (ten minutes, tops) and a real bright spot. I worry whom I will forget, and how I will limit myself to 40 letters. But I am trying to remember and be grateful, and that counts for something in this life. I have drunk from many wells that I have not dug, and this is a chance to thank the people — from casual acquaintances to the closest of the close — who wielded the shovels.

ALC

My friend Jamie told me about the free hot tub that ended up costing him $2500. I had a similar experience lately: I purchased a hot tub on Craigslist for $250, and when I did, I apparently thought that it was as simple as filling it up and plugging it in. Not so. After a few months — and expenditures for a plumber, an electrician, a hot tub specialist (who deserves his own story), a cover, and chemicals — I have a working hot tub. Trust me when I tell you this: Jamie’s estimate was too low.

I am not sure what possessed me to want a hot tub of my very own, but when it hit, it hit hard. Honestly, I woke up one day convinced that I needed a hot tub. I have spent more than my fair share of time in hot tubs at hotels and on vacation, largely ignoring that they are but bubbling petri dishes. (Perhaps I have been distracted by those dudes who seem to want to target me with stories of their loathsome ex-wives. Who can say?) And I conjure this mental image from the first place that Chris and I lived together: the apartment complex’s hot tub boasted an older gentlemen with a bad comb-over, hoisting a large brandy snifter and winking at all the ladies. Nine times out of ten, he was alone.

But these recollections and Jamie’s story left me undeterred. So Chris and I rented a truck, drove 30 miles south, and picked up an old square ivory Jacuzzi — big enough for four, exceedingly comfortable for two. No wave seating or light display or frills. (Yes, friends, if hot tubs were lingerie, ours would be plain cotton briefs.) And like everything else in this world, making it work was simply a matter of time and money — or too much time and too much money, as these things tend to go.

Here’s an understatement for you: Life generates some anxiety. Here’s another: I don’t always manage that anxiety well. I am too much of a border collie to meditate. Yoga aggravates a shoulder injury. Inactivity eats at my soul. Which makes me seem like the least likely candidate ever for a hot tub purchase.

Which is precisely why I needed a hot tub, even if I couldn’t quite explain it at the time.

Most nights you will find me in the backyard, lying on a bench up to my chin in hot bubbling water. Chris is on the other bench. The leaves on the tree are long gone, and the tree’s massive branches weave through the night sky. The moon goes through its phases, and the constellations have become familiar. The traffic sounds like the ocean; the neighbors sound like a cocktail party; and the dogs sound like wolves. The house lights flip on, flip off, as the children we love roam from room to room on their way to bed. In this cozy little patch of the world, the ebb and flow of everyday life recedes, and I nearly float, silently soaking it all in.

ALC

One of the things that has surprised me lately is how much I cry. I really thought that I would roll into my 47th year of life battle-hardened and (largely) unfazed, but this has not been the case. I had an inkling that I was a middle-aged crybaby at a Christmas concert at my children’s high school. The choir broke into a joyful song, and I broke into tears. My first thought was “Damn. I’m getting old.” My second thought was “Well, yes. So why aren’t you past all of this?”

I wondered the same thing a few weeks ago in church, when a teenaged Boy Scout received the God and Country badge. This boy’s father was his scoutmaster, his grandfather (also a scout) was there, and his mother rolled his new bandana (like a pro!) and placed it around his neck. The devotion to a cause, to each other, and to doing good about did me in. I tried to keep it down to a few discreet sniffles and teary eyes; I doubt I fooled anyone.

Which brings me to yesterday, my latest crying jag. Thanks to a busy few days, I laid in bed at 8:15 on a Wednesday morning and read for a few minutes. (In my younger years this would have seemed both slothful and commonplace, but now, oh now!, it seemed like a perfect gift — a small, beautifully wrapped luxury item bestowed with love.) I am finishing “This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage,” a collection of personal essays by Ann Patchett. I hit a trifecta of stories that hit close to home: one about her grandmother’s battles with dementia, another about the death of a beloved dog, and a third about her marriage.

Her parents had divorced when she was young, and she decided to save herself from that fate by never marrying. She had a short, largely unhappy first marriage — which only confirmed how right she was. And then she met her current husband. He very much wanted to marry her by their third date, but she resisted for 11 years — until she thought that he was going to expire from a condition where a large portion of his heart appeared to have withered and died. So they married. He recovered. And after they married, she was surprised by how deeply he loved her — like finding a hidden wing on a long-inhabited house.

It was beautiful. It was inspiring. It was a good thing I wasn’t wearing mascara because I was sobbing. Blubbering! Crying like a baby. The tears welled up, the tears fell, and I felt better. I also figured out maybe — just maybe — why I cry so much these days.

Yes, I am battle-hardened and (largely) unfazed. In 46 years, I have seen hate and ugliness and selfishness and smallness — and not all of it by me. I have tried and I have failed so many times, and some days have felt like a walk into a strong headwind. I have picked my fair share of fights, and I have felt my heart shrink. Like Ann Patchett, I know the sheer terror of being all-in, of laying my whole heart out there: It may not work, and it may hurt like hell.

After all these years on this Earth, I know one thing: Beauty and light and goodness and hope must be acknowledged. Bad things happen. People die. Situations seem unbearable. But scouts get badges, choirs sing beautiful songs, love endures.

And I cry.