I’ve been thinking often of Lent—not as a task to complete, but as a place to encounter Jesus. As I’ve prayed about how to walk with Christ through the desert this year, one word keeps rising to the surface like a whisper: hidden.
We know the story of Christ’s birth so well. The star‑washed night, the humble stable, the details Mother Mary must have loved recounting to the Gospel writers. We glimpse Him again at the Presentation, just over a month old, when Simeon and Anna recognize the long‑awaited Messiah in the arms of His mother. At twelve, we see Him once more: missing for three days, then found in the Temple. I imagine the breathlessness in Our Lady’s retelling—the ache of losing her Son, losing God, even for a moment.
And then Scripture falls silent.
From that Temple scene until Jesus is about thirty, the Gospels give us nothing. All those years—decades of ordinary life in Nazareth—are what the Church calls the “Hidden Years” of Christ.
I often wonder about those years. The humble, holy home of Mary and Joseph, their shared suppers and conversations. The games child Jesus must have played with His neighbors. The chores He may have helped with. The peaceful, happy death of St. Joseph as he left this world with Jesus and Mary at his bedside. There’s no mention of it. All hidden.
Just as Nazareth was the quiet workshop of Christ’s heart, our homes become the quiet workshop of ours.
When the Word became flesh and dwelled among us, and angels announced Heaven’s Darling was here, even then He was hidden. His miracles and His preaching with unmatched authority were glimpses and revelations of His divinity, but still, the world did not see His full glory until the Resurrection. And today, He is pleased to make Himself even smaller, even more hidden than when He was that poor babe in swaddling clothes.
The Holy Eucharist.
God Almighty. Fully Present—Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. Much smaller than a child. Hidden in the Tabernacles of every Catholic Church.
Hidden.
I heard a friend lament about how she feels so unseen in motherhood. I understood her. In the monotony of mom-life—car rider pickup lines, piles of dirty dishes and unfolded laundry—she feels obscure, maybe underappreciated. But what if instead of trying to escape the hiddenness, we entered it with Him? Christ’s hidden years weren’t wasted, and neither are ours. They’re precious opportunities for formation, fidelity, and quiet love.
This is my Hidden Lent… ironically announced in this article. I want to invite you to join me if you’re longing for a Lent that doesn’t demand more of you, but reveals more of Him.
Instead of “giving up chocolate” (and I’m not discrediting that!), consider small practices that match the theme of Hiddenness:
Hidden Prayer: a whispered Our Father while sweeping the floor, a scripture verse taped to your bathroom mirror, a pause before responding to a child or co-worker.
Hidden Sacrifice: swap scrolling for stillness, pass on the fancy coffee, set the alarm for five minutes earlier than usual to greet the day with Christ.
Hidden Mercy: let your spouse’s fault go without comment, speak gently when tired, pray for someone who irritates you.
Lent is not a season of spectacle. It is a season of hiddenness and of letting Christ draw us into the quiet places where He Himself chose to dwell. Mothers know those places well. And perhaps this Lent, the Lord is inviting us not to do more, but to see more: to recognize that the God who hid Himself in Nazareth and hides Himself in the Eucharist is also hidden in our homes, waiting to meet us in the small, faithful acts of love that no one else will ever see. Oh, how He loves you!
Looking to incorporate more prayer into your Lent? Me too.
Here’s a calendar printable for you to organize your intentions. You’re in my prayers!
*Feature photo by Thomas Bormans on Unsplash
