Sometimes it's the little things

At our Ash Wednesday worship service last night, a young couple with a toddler and a nearly new infant were last to approach my side as they came up for ashes and Holy Communion. The two year old was curious and watchful, her brow furrowed as I carefully traced crosses on each member of her family. I showed her my small dish of palm ashes and asked if I could put some on her forehead, remembering suddenly and vividly that the last time I had touched her brow was at her baptism.

Because she was reluctant to agree, I offered to put the sign of the cross on the back of her hand instead - which she allowed. After examining the black mark on her hand, she looked from her mother's face to her sister's to mine - concern on her own, the gears in her head hard at work.

She quickly came to a conclusion - and rubbed the back of her smudged hand onto her own forehead. That single moment might be the gift that tides me over until Easter. Thanks, little one.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down...

I found what I was frantically looking for - the two small packets of palm ashes purchased weeks ago for tomorrow's Ash Wednesday services. A pastor friend once shared a cautionary tale I've never forgotten: copier toner is not a safe substitute for ashes.

Not to worry. At least I've collected the basic supplies.

Over many years and in many settings I have had the privilege of applying ashen crosses to the foreheads of a wide range of folks -confirmation campers under the canopy of a redwood forest, an ecumenical collection of college students crowded into a university chapel, elderly shut-ins who needed no reminding that this life is beautiful, fragile and limited, infants who hadn't yet defied a parent, tasted strawberries, thrown a snowball.

I have at times been over-ambitious with the ash, dribbling a trail of soot onto eyelashes and noses. I have accidentally dislodged wigs and lifted up bangs crispy with hair gel to make way for the cross. I have traced giant ashen hearts onto pates bald from chemo and graced foreheads marred with acne. I have caught someone's eye and laughed at just the wrong/right moment, unleashing a ripple of the kind of giggles that are hard to stop on such a somber day, probably ruining it for some. I have been surprised by a tidal wave of love and grief and awe that snuck up on me, excusing myself until the floodgates could be closed. I have gone home too tired to wash the cross off my own forehead and awakened to its shadow with forty long days standing between me and the promised resurrection.

What will God do with us, in us, and through us in the next forty days?

What's that smell?

As a young girl, I dreaded being sent to the barn to do even the smallest task before school.  After just a few seconds, my long hair would reek of hog manure - a fragrant fact my classmates were quick to notice and ridicule. The smell of farm life clung to me all day.

In college, I spent a semester assembling and serving fast food at a popular chain restaurant. The long walk back to my apartment after my shift was never enough to separate me from the greasy aroma of hamburgers and fries - both delicious and repulsive.

I spent most of this busy day doing home visits and returned smelling like ... well.... like my parishioners! In the exchange of hugs and handshakes, communion and prayers, the smells of cologne and perfume and soap clung to me - along with the pain, grief, laughter, love and faith that were shared. (And, I confess, a very small slice of cherry pie.)

Peeling off my fragrant jacket, I am so grateful for the gift of relationship and for burdens and hope shared in our faith community.

What does love smell like for you?