The imposition of ashes, we call it. Usually an imposition is an inconvenience; something imposing is something intimidating. Both of those senses work here as well, though of course the literal meaning is "putting on." Once a year someone looks me in the eye and says, "Honey, you're going to die and your body will rot in the ground." Talk about your inconvenient truths. Talk about intimidating.
I love Ash Wednesday: the fresh start, the do-over. I grew up in a mainline Protestant denomination where we prided ourselves on doing things decently and in order. We did not begrime ourselves in church. I first saw the imposition of ashes when I was 20, and I was surprised at how hard it hit me. Remember, woman, that you are dust. I scuffed home that night in fresh snow, thinking about the dark smudge on my forehead. Once it was part of something living; now, that something is dead and changed beyond recognition. ...and to dust you shall return.
Tonight I felt that same twinge of painful knowing as the minister daubed ashes on my baby daugher's forehead. "To dust you shall return," he told her, and I winced. I was surprised to feel something different when I received ashes myself -- something like gratitude, or like relief. I walked back to my pew chewing on a beloved phrase: "and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God."
I have been thinking this evening about the frustrating slowness of sanctification. I wish I could make it happen faster somehow -- isn't there a pill I could take, or perhaps a DVD with Fabulous Forty-Day Soul-Firming Exercises and a money-back guarantee if I'm not satisfied? But I'm remembering being disappointed with myself at the end of Lent in 1993 for trying and failing to do something that's second nature now. I am thinking about how our bodies and souls walk the same path with different destinations, our souls inching heavenward and our bodies slowly, inexorably, sinking toward their graves. Remember, they told me at Mass, and I am remembering.
Tonight I went to Mass alone with all 5 kids and they did beautifully. We squashed into a crowded pew but there were no turf wars; the younger boys needed a few reminders about asking questions quietly and that was all. For years I felt wrung out after going to Mass, even with my husband there to help wrestle kids into submission. If you had told me that I would go to a jam-packed Mass with five kids and no other adults -- and enjoy it -- I'm not sure whether I would have laughed or cried. They're learning. I hope we're learning together.
Last year Joe didn't want ashes; this year I told him to go forward anyway. He whispered to me in the dark when I tucked him in: "Is my ash cross still there?" I could see it faintly, I told him. "Good," he said, "I want it to stay." I am going upstairs now to wash off the remnants of mine, but I hope I will carry its message with me. "Imposition" can also mean "putting in" and that's my prayer this evening: that God will plant this knowledge deep in me, of what endures and what is passing away.
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