A year now spent, learning to receive the sacrament of
Christ’s body, broken and blessed, his blood shed and shared.
In spirit, in my heart, with no
physical presence and yet an ultimate presence.
Christ received into my soul,
unmediated, not symbol but truth.
Here now, learning to receive ashes to my forehead. Without sacramental
touch from another, no shadowy smudge as outward sign. Ashes made of palm
branches unwaved in celebration of a coming king? Ashes of our Lord’s arrival
left unannounced.
Ashes are the repentance of
voices twisted from hosannas to cries of crucify.
What repentance of voices left
dry and cracked from silence?
The ashes I wear this day are the repentance of my failure
to take what I have, good or ill and let my God reshape it into something
useful, beautiful, wonderful.
The ashes I wear are the burnt offering of my fear and pride
to give away what little the year has left me. Fear of lack in the face of a
God of abundance.
The ashes I wear, though unseen by woman or man, are the
silent offering to the Lord of a life dirty, burned and scarred by time walking
the world.
The ashes I wear are washed away by God as parent. With a
lick of a thumb, a scrub of the face and a kiss to the head. Cleansed of stain
and tears wiped away.
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