Ash Wednesday

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
~~

Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks

From T. S. Eliot’s Ash Wednesday:

Last year, Ash Wednesday and Lent metaphorically fell into my day without me paying any attention to it. Too many cancer issues were happening But this year, I made an attempt to pay attention to Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. . . not for the “I have to do this” striving but for the quiet desire to enter into this means of grace.

My pastor Luke Le Duc says Lent is a time to think on what part of how we are living doesn’t align with life in God’s Kingdom. I’ve been thinking on what it means to live a “hidden life” and what it looks like to live a quiet life. What needs to be let go of so I can have more quiet in my mind and heart? How to live in the rest that God gives.

Isaiah 30:15 “For thus said the Lord GOD, the Holy One of Israel, “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength…”

Hidden. Quiet. Rest. Trust. Salvation. Strength. It’s an abundance of goodness that God offers us.

This Ash Wednesday, Ned and I actually got ourselves to the 7am service at church to receive the ashes on our foreheads. This is only the second time in my life I’ve made the effort. The first time was years and years ago when I walked with a young friend to our neighborhood Catholic church’s evening service. It was all new to me, and I enjoyed it. This Ash Wednesday felt different.

There was a short time of responsive readings and prayers. At the end we went forward like we do every Sunday for communion. We shuffled out of our pews, and in two single files we slowly made our way to the front where our two pastors stood. Standing behind my friend Rebecca, I could hear Pastor Keith say “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” And I thought… “Oh dear, this is a little too real for me now.” I don’t know how to describe the tiny, electric, uncomfortable-under-my-skin-feeling I had while I waited, but I was aware of it. When I stepped up to Keith, I had not noticed a few pieces of hair hanging over my forehead. Pastor Keith smiled at me while he pushed my hair aside to put the sign of the cross with the ashes on my forehead; the twinkle in Keith’s eyes caused a slight snort laugh to escape my lips. I thought, “Oh so this Is how I’m going to respond to this solemn moment of getting the cross put on my forehead by my pastor…. like an uncomfortable middle school girl.”

When we got home, I fell asleep on the couch and slept for a couple hours. When I woke up, I mindlessly rubbed my forehead … mussing up the sign of the cross that Keith had placed earlier that morning. Now I looked like a little kid with a dirty face. I didn’t wash it off til the evening . . . I thought it was poetic to have some black smudges above my eyes.

This Ash Wednesday felt like a comedy of sorts— the comedy of being a needy, messy human in a holy moment. Here I am Jesus. Please keep making all things new, me included.

The day before Ash Wednesday I had a PET scan and happily learned there are still no tumors taking up space in my body. It was a clear and clean scan. I was given my own little resurrection. On Ash Wednesday, I spent most of the day in the kitchen baking banana bread and apple muffins and trying out a new potato soup recipe. Since I haven’t had a lot of desire to be creative in the kitchen, this time was a way for me to live into that little resurrection..

White whole wheat, apples, oatmeal, dried cranberries, maple syrup… just my kind of perfect. Ned’s banana bread has chocolate chips in it — just his kind of perfect.

The day after Ash Wednesday, Ned and I went to the memorial service of Faye Goddard. Faye was part of the core group of people who started Wheatland Church. Ned and I were in our late twenties and Carey was 2 when we met her. With her housemate Dorcas Simpson, Faye was in our first care group at Wheatland. She was in a wheelchair because she had become paralyzed by polio when a missionary in the Philippines 25+ years ago. But being in a wheelchair didn’t slow Faye down in any way. She was full of life and served and loved the Lord and people wherever she was and in many creative and rich ways. When Carey heard Faye had died, she said, “Faye was one of those church people who are at the core of who I am.” During her memorial service we all sang Faye’s favorite hymns — The Old Rugged Cross and All the Way My Savior Leads Me — old gospel songs I haven’t sung in decades but good ones to sing at the beginning of Lent, while thinking about Faye and the hope we have in Jesus and his resurrection.

The poem I wrote about Lent for inclusion in a CIVA journal that came out at the end of the year. It accompanies this photo of a shovel.