Because my Lent took a nosedive about two-thirds of the way through, I am still immersed in a project I undertook in order to get my spiritual groove back: Writing out the Gospel of Mark, in longhand.

It has been a very interesting, instructive and spiritual enlivening experience and I recommend the practice to anyone -- in fact, I may spend the next three Lenten seasons writing out the other Gospels because the practice is opening up Scripture for me in a surprisingly thoughtful way.

Over-familiar lines that have washed past me for years are suddenly jumping out and forcing me into frequent and unexpected lectio divina, as I obey the nudge to stop and ponder, pray and (usually) journal over a word or phrase before I can move on.

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Admittedly, the hand will cramp sometimes, but putting pen to paper is known to excite areas of the brain that go unused when we're at the keyboard, or endlessly scrolling our phones and computers.

In an era of predictable commentary from almost every side (being served up every day by stubborn, omnipresent algorithms), it seems jump-starting the synapses and refreshing one's own thought patterns with a bit of cursive writing can only be a good thing.

My own experience gives witness to the value of picking up a pen. When dealing with writer's block, I will pull out the old legal pad and start laying my herky-jerky thoughts down by hand. If the effort is tentative to start, it doesn't take long for my thoughts to slip into fluid order as speedily as my Catholic school penmanship will permit. Very quickly, the logjam ends and the thoughts and structures flow unimpeded.

In writing out Mark's Gospel, old lines I've ceased to really hear have suddenly come alive, speaking to me in very personal ways. I read, "Who touched my garments?" (Mk 5:30) and must consider how my most hidden intentions are seen by God and can contribute to co-operation with heaven, if my own faith allows. I see the Syrophoenician woman boldly tell the Christ, "Lord, even the dogs under the table eat the children's crumbs," and recall that bringing our whole selves into prayerful dialogue means making a humble but rigorous stand before God, delivering reason to our supplications when God-permitted circumstances seem unreasonable.

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I hear Jesus saying, "Come away by yourselves to a lonely place, and rest a while" (Mk 6:31) and realize how much I long for solitude with him, and how infrequently I actually pursue that ageless time and space. A passage that has resonated with me these weeks, though, is "What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth, have you come to destroy us? I know who you are -- the Holy One of God." (Mk 1:24). Singular or plural, the opening question is profound. What HAVE you to do with me, Jesus of Nazareth? Why do you care? Why am I here? What are you going to do with me?

"Have you come to destroy us" may seem an inapplicable question but not when paired with the "dangerous prayer of blessing" we make when we sincerely pray, "Thy will be done" -- a surrender which can sometimes feel like it translates to "go ahead, wreck my life." He has come to save, not destroy. But that salvation doesn't always look benign.

And finally, the proclamation that is both presumptuous and permitted: "I know who you are -- the Holy One of God!" It is presumptuous because none of us can wholly know the All-in-All, yet permitted because it is true -- so true that even unclean spirits shout the fact of it aloud -- "the Holy One of God!"

I've loved the phrase since I was a child; pondering it throughout Lent became a lasting gift, once more, as it reminds: "Iesus est Dominus"-- "Jesus is Lord" (Phil 2:11).

I haven't quite finished Mark, but Philippians might be a good book to write out as well. It is only four chapters long.

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I can't wait to start it. Care to join me?

Elizabeth Scalia is editor-at-large for OSV