The U.S. Catholic bishops’ guidelines for Lenten fasting and abstinence absolve children from the dietary restrictions, but as a family we have always chosen to follow this practice together. That means on Ash Wednesday and on Fridays during Lent, we don’t eat meat, and—while the adults fast—the children eat simpler meals than normal. But when our doctor told us that one of our kid’s nutritional needs had changed, I found our typical approach to Lenten meal planning a bit of a challenge.
At the time, my daughter’s diet required double the amount of protein than is generally recommended for a child her age. She didn’t like many of the protein substitutes we use during Lent, such as fish and beans. And the doctors and dieticians emphasized that those around her needed to model healthy relationships with food—eating wide varieties of foods at consistent intervals, trying new foods we don’t normally eat, and speaking positively about food.
Even if we made separate meals for her, I was worried the family’s Lenten habits would negatively impact her. I became anxious about whether or not to continue the practice at all. As Lent approached, I reflected on the purpose of fasting and abstinence in the first place, and ultimately entered more fully into the meaning of the experience.
Fasting has been part of faith practices for thousands of years. In Judaism and Christianity, it’s drawn from scripture itself. In Leviticus 23, God commanded Israel to fast on the day of atonement. In Esther 4, the Jewish community fasts together as they await the planned persecution under Haman. And in the gospels, Jesus fasts for 40 days in the desert in preparation for his ministry.
In the Catholic tradition, fasting has been tied to repentance, sacrifice, solidarity, and spiritual preparation. Someone might fast to express sorrow for sin or as a personal or communal offering to the Lord or to honor God during moments of spiritual importance. Someone might fast in solidarity with those who have no choice but to go hungry or restrict their diet or to consciously challenge trends of overconsumption and gluttony.
Through fasting, we disrupt the patterns of our daily lives. It invites us to consider what we take for granted, and to pay attention to needs and realities beyond ourselves. These are radical acts in a culture that emphasizes instant rewards and constant consumption.
That Lent, forced to rethink how our family participated in the practice of fasting and abstinence, I became more conscious not only of the meal planning, but also of the manner in which I formed our children to think about fasting and the model I set for everyone, every day. I focused on the impact of my eating habits for my own spiritual life and for justice throughout the world.
In addition to avoiding food waste, I started to think about not wasting the effort of each person who helped bring that food to our table. I saw each cup of coffee dumped down the drain as the fruit of a year of a farmer’s labor, weeks of a shipping company’s coordination, and hours of marketing and production from a distribution company. Wasting food felt like also wasting hours of human creativity and care.
When we threw away rotten vegetables, I realized we were so accustomed to food access that it was easy to forget it even ended up in our fridge. Taking produce, only for it to end up in the trash, meant less left for other people’s use. That felt selfish and callous, even if unintentional.
So we started buying less on each trip to the store and grocery shopping more often to get only what was needed for a certain meal, rather than indiscriminately buying things from a long list. We looked at ways to prioritize shelf stable ingredients regularly and create meals we could freeze as leftovers. And I made a commitment that Lent to donate something each week to our local food pantry.
Reflecting on the direct impact of our consumption refocused my commitment to economic and environmental justice through purchasing power. I wondered: Were the people creating the products we ate justly compensated? Did they have safe working conditions and time for rest? How was God’s creation being affected by the way these goods were harvested, produced, and transported to my table? And how was I passing on my values and explaining my choices, rooted in faith and justice, to my children?
I renewed my commitment to buy locally created, seasonal, natively sourced (produced by the people and cultures to whom they belong), or ethically traded (such as Fair Trade-certified) products. I took more time to plan and research purchases and tried to purchase from local or minority-owned businesses. If I had to purchase from a larger corporation, I chose ones with commitments to justice, sustainability, and other global considerations. I tried to use my economic privilege for the benefit of others who do not have access to the same options.
As a family, we now discuss the way food gets to our table. When we bless our food, we also bless the hands that went into making it, and those who go without food. I invite my kids into the decision-making process about what we buy at the grocery store, how much, and from which companies. And when I ask them to give something up, like meat on Fridays during Lent, I try to remind them (and myself) of the people who don’t have a choice like we do.
Despite the anxiety of that Lent years ago, I’m grateful for how—just as fasting interrupts the rhythm of life—the need to adhere to additional dietary requirements interrupted my expectations and assumptions about this spiritual practice and drew more empathy from me in line with Jesus’ compassion for others. I realized that even the small choices, like giving up chocolate or having meatless meals, can bear immense fruit when we undertake them intentionally and for a purpose aligned with God’s liberating activity in the world.
This article also appears in the March 2026 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 91, No. 3, page 43-44). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
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