Ash Wednesday

A few moments I want to remember ...
- standing in the sacristy, wondering where these black, black ashes come from? They look nothing like the gray ones we made from burnt palm leaves. I also recalled the white ashes that were the remains of my father.
- creating a slurry of olive oil and black ash to smear on the foreheads of the faithful
- at noon today, following worship, a roomful of older folks, chatting and laughing over bowls of warm soup, while the ashen crosses on their heads danced in the sun ... a sort of Pentecost. Take that, death and grave!
- Walking through Lunds this afternoon, black cross on my head, black coat, clerical, pants and shoes ... People were quite wary of me. Looked the other direction when they saw my ashes and gave me a wide berth if we happened to be walking toward each other. I felt like such a bad-ass!
- this evening, drawing crosses on white porcelain skin and old leathery skin; on the brow of a woman whose young husband had now become ashes himself; and on the forehead of a redheaded teenager who when I said "Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return," leveled his gaze at me and said, "Is that in the Bible?"
- at the end of a long day, stopping at Burger King for one of my favorite indulgences: a frozen Coke. African American BK employee leans her generous self out the window towards me: "What's up with the black cross on yo' head?"
"Um, it's Ash Wednesday, in the church" ... I begin, thinking, "how do I abridge all the meanings of this day?" but it's enough. "Oh, all right" she says, and the window folds shut.

It is enough ... to know that we were created from the dust, and that when we return to dust, and all of the moments in between, our God is with us.