Ash Wednesday is one
of the most powerful days of the Christian year. We remember that
we are, indeed, mortal beings in a finite world held together simply
through the breath, grace and love of our Creator. On Ash Wednesday,
everything and everyone is laid bare.
About a decade ago,
one of the little babies that I nannied, (the first tiny infant I had
held since my own miscarriages) died on Ash Wednesday. I received
the news at the end of my preschool teaching that morning, only
moments before the noontide service was to begin upstairs in the
church sanctuary. My parents were meeting me at the service. My dad
look at me when I walked in and he knew what had happened. The sweet
infant's heart surgery that morning had gone terribly wrong.
My dad held me close
to his own heart as we remained in the narthex listening to the
familiar Ash Wednesday liturgy -- words that had swept over me from
my own infancy years. We cried together over the poignancy of those
words reflecting on our mortality and the suffering in the world. My
parents and I walked down the aisle, an aisle we had walked down
together in joy only a few years before as I married my high school
sweetheart. I walked that aisle knowing that, for me and for all who
loved that little baby, nothing would ever be the same.
Walking down that
aisle, I faced mortality head on. As I received the sign of ashes on
my forehead, the senior minister and I looked at each other through
bloodshot, tear-filled eyes. His voice was a trembling whisper.
"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."
Even in the midst of my deepest shock, those words struck me to my
core.
Now, a decade later,
the words strike deeply again, as only a couple of months ago, I held
my father's ashes in my hands before they were laid to rest on a
sunny day in the midst of winter.
On Ash Wednesday, we
remember our mortality. We remember the suffering in the world. We
acknowledge our fears, our shortcomings and our sadness.
In our remembrance
and intentions during the Lenten season that begins today, we speak
of death without hesitation. We cry out at the pain, suffering and
injustice in our world. We walk the road of shadows, pricking our
fingers on the thorns and getting down on our hands and knees in the
mud and muck of life. We remember who we are. And in so doing, we
open ourselves up to the possibility of breathing in new life.
The joy and triumph
of Easter means nothing without the sting of death. So, my sisters
and brothers, may we not be hasty to embrace the light. Walk with me
along this road of shadows. Let us stumble together along the
pathway of Lent.
