Today was full of lots of wonderful, small, glorious things:
Hot coffee
Sunshine
A long walk at the arboretum
Phone calls with two dear friends
One Lindt chocolate truffle
Driving with the windows down
A very adorable and happy baby
The smell of that happy baby's head
The dear friend who gave birth to that baby, who is one of the most wonderful people I know
A nap in the sun
Really yummy honey mustard salad dressing
A sweet cat who steals my pillow
A clementine orange
And a roof over my head
For all these things, and more, thank God.
"I wanted, though I did not know it then, a synthesis. I wanted life, and abundant life. I wanted it for others, too." -Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness
I encountered a prayer station recently that invited me to run my hands through a bowl of water and remember my baptism. This is what I wrote on the back of my program:
I can't hold it in my hands, like I can in my mind.
It just keeps slipping through my fingers.
I had the irresistible urge to arms splash it all over my arms and my face - trying to go back to that day.
Even though it was awkward and my embarrassment over my teenage body and behavior was real, I still want to go back. To see Ian hand me my Bible, to see my grandmother's pride, to experience the wonder and strangeness. To wash away all the sadness and sorrow and grief that I've added to my life.
It's been so long since I've been wrapped safely in someone's arms and just held like I imagine God holds us. I'm lonely and my baptism day was one of blessed and beloved community. And I want to go back.
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I don't feel lonely everyday, but I did the day I wrote this. I can't go back to a time of innocence, but you know what? I can take a bath. I can pray. And I can always remember.
Having turned toward Jerusalem, I can hear the disciples saying to him, "Shouldn't we go here or there instead? I don't understand your motives? Why must we be secretive about your identity? Who are you anyway?"
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He came forward to receive the ashes, leaning heavily on his cane with his back bowed against the weight of the world. He was a minister. Still is, really. So he knows what this is about. Not just because as a clergy person he would have observed Ash Wednesday every year for who knows how long, but also because he is old. Wise with years. His face shows it around the eyes and mouth, his hands show it, and the shuffle of his slow and steady walk makes it clear: this man has seen the ways of the world.
I don't know him well, but I do know that he always takes a moment to offer an appreciative comment or engage me with a question whenever I lead worship. He reads the newsletter and comments on the articles inside. He's sharp as a tack, and the weight of his life and experience fill up the room with a presence that's hard to describe.
So here I am, 25 years old, drawing a cross in ashes on this man's forehead saying, "Remember that you were made from dust, and to dust you shall return." It's a bit surreal, and not quite right. No one of his age is under any delusion that death is not a reality. It's the people my own age that need that reminder the most. But still, he came forward, and we engaged this ancient ritual practice.
Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
As I drew the cross on his forehead, he looked up at me through his eyebrows and said, "Soon. Very soon," as he offered me a sad smile. I imagine this was his way of flipping the script. Instead of me reminding him of his mortality, he reminded me of his own mortality. He made it real and not just a figurative story. His words made me fumble, awkwardly, wanting to reassure him that it will all be okay. That I'm sure he will live much longer. But I'm not. I can't say that or make those assurances for anyone. So I just made a "mmm" sound of agreement and turned my eyes to the floor. It's true. He will return to dust soon, very soon. No one can say just when, but he knows it won't be long.
Instead of turning his eyes away from it as I did he faced it with courage and not an ounce of denial. I am dust, and I shall return to dust. Very soon, I will return to dust. And for a moment we held that sacred and human knowledge between us. And then he shuffled away, leaning on his cane, and I looked to the next person in line as I took a deep breath. Every breath a little closer to my own death.
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They asked him, "Who are you anyway? When will you explain all of this to us? When will we understand?"
"Soon. Very soon," he replied.
