By Stephen P. White.

Lent is in full swing now. If you are like me, you enter this season full of determination and enthusiasm: My prayer will be deeper. My penance will be purer. My almsgiving will be richer. And may it well be so for all of us!

But if you are like me, you also know that the Lenten journey doesn't always finish with the same fervor with which it began. I can remember Lents – more than I care to admit – in which my best laid plans for fasting or scheduled prayer were soon derailed.

I recall one year, many years ago, beginning Lent on retreat with a small group in Rome. When we met for Mass on Ash Wednesday, I was asked to do the readings. Now, reading or speaking in public does not bother me in the least, but singing – that is a very different matter. On that day. I was so full of Lenten zeal that I resolved to swallow my pride, humble myself, and intone the Gospel acclamation. After all, I was on retreat! On Ash Wednesday! In Rome!

And so I sang with gusto. I sang from my diaphragm. I belted out the Alleluia.

I noticed the embarrassed faces about halfway through my triumphant, liturgical faux pas. They weren't looking at me. Their eyes were all fixed on the floor as they wondered if they should reply or not. I didn't have the heart to look over at the priest. I finished the offending tune, walked to my seat, and, in a mostly metaphorical sense, died.

(I'm sure – and I mean this in the most serious theological way – that God was deeply amused. God exists outside of time, so I suspect all the embarrassing things we think "will be funny one day" are immediately funny to him. But I admit that is speculation.)

That was about as mortifying a beginning to Lent as I can remember, but it set the whole tone for what was, in truth, one of the more fruitful Lents I can remember. Public embarrassment, it turns out, can have a bracing effect on the soul.

When it comes to persistence in penance, I find that it helps to enlist others to keep me accountable. The Lord's admonition to fast in secret notwithstanding, the watchful eye of others can sometimes move us toward virtue in a way that mere willpower and good intentions cannot. Spouses are very good for this sort of accountability. Children are even better.

In my experiences, siblings have a preternatural ability to know what their brothers and sisters have given up for Lent and are at least as enthusiastic about calling one another to account for slip-ups as they are zealous in keeping their own fasts. And hearing a 7-year-old comment, with something approaching innocence, "Dad, I thought you gave that up for Lent," is a powerful corrective to a weak-willed parent.

Keeping up appearances does not do justice to the true purpose of Lenten penance – the Lord clearly warns about this – but it is not entirely a bad thing either. Better a penance kept with outside prodding than a penance shattered on the rocks of half-baked Pelagian zeal, however pure.

Of course, helping one another to keep our fasts, to say our prayers, or to be really generous in our almsgiving need not be a form of moral scorekeeping. Supporting one another in our Lenten practices and having the humility to rely on such support in turn are both acts of charity. Lent is a communal journey as much as a personal one. Or rather, it is communal precisely because it is personal.

The Church's own prescribed penances of fasting and abstinence (including on Fridays outside of Lent) were most efficacious when they were more uniformly kept. That may seem like a tautology, but it is not.

It is easier to behave a certain way when you are around lots of other people who are trying to behave the same way. To be "normal" is to live according to the norms – the expectations and precepts – of the community to which one belongs. When the norms of the community are directed toward what is good, it becomes normal to be good.

So surround yourself with other penitents. Do your friends and family the favor of holding them (gen...