Ashes ashes we all fall down

Maybe it is because I grew up in one of those non-creedal, non-liturgical denominations and I was always secretly jealous of my Roman Catholic friend who would come to school with a bold black cross drawn across his forehead. Somehow, I just knew there was some secret mystery being kept from me by my parents, the preacher, and all other significant authority figures.

Perhaps, if I could come to school emblazoned with ashes everything in life would be revealed. The shroud hiding God from my pre-adolescent gnosis would be torn away and finally I could be certain of the love preached at me three, four, five times a week. Maybe nothing more would happen than the mark would slowly fade away in the youthful play of elementary students, just as my friend’s cross would disappear bit at a time.

It didn’t matter. I wanted one of those dark crosses pressed into my skin.

Freed from the weight of burdensome piety I found my way to a creedal, liturgical group of believers and for several years have stood in tearful silence as an oily blackness was smeared above my eyes. Jarred into reality hearing the promise that I am and will return to dust. The secrets of life have not been shown to me. Love is more real but still obscured by my own inability to grasp. Even so, I move away from the reality of my own frailty, refreshed and strengthened by a smudge of ashes and one short sentence.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Once more I will wear a dark cross visible to others, and beyond my own sight. This year I will not be surprised when the layperson who is assisting, turns and walks back to their seat, oblivious they have forgotten to impose ashes upon their pastor. As I have before, I will dip my thumb into a dark pile of soot, scribe the Greek letter Chi upon myself and speak those words of mortal finality. And I will once again be freed…for a moment at least.

Turning to the altar I will set down the small cup of ashes, wash my fingers with a damp towel and turn to face the people I have been called to love, guide, protect, teach, bless, encourage. My arms will raise up, the sleeves of my gown sliding gently toward my elbows as three fingers instinctively come together to tell again the story of a three person God who lives as one. My lungs will expand as I draw a breath preparing to speak to those I love that, "as a called and ordained servant of the Word, I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."

Then again as it does every year the mallet of pain will pound into my chest forcing out the blessed oxygen that sustains life. I will gasp as if even the smallest bit of energy has been released from every cell in my body. Looking back at me will be eyes longing to hear they are loved, cared about, forgiven; and between each pair will be a black abscess telling me these children of mine whom I love, will each in their own time and way, die.

My throat will thicken, my eyes burn with the salinity of forced back tears, my body will shiver with the involuntary terror of such loss. For a moment of eternity I will stand frozen, unable to perform the ritual.Then with a forced swallow, air will again flow into my lungs. I will lift my head and the words will come strong and confident promising my children they have again be set free to live.