"Ash Removal"

She asked a very legitimate question yesterday. After all, my friend has never attended an Ash Wednesday service. She has never had ashes placed on her forehead. She has never truly journeyed through Lent other than to give up chocolates for a period of time ... "just because."

"Anna", she said ... "What is the proper etiquette for the removal of the ashes from my forehead? Am I to wipe the cross off during the service? On the way home? Before I go to bed? Do I sleep with the ashes on my forehead? I just don't know what I am to do."

I assured her that it was a very good question. I suggested that she remember the actual touch, the very action of the ashes being placed on her forehead. "This, my friend, is the moment of reminder of who we are ... a person who has become very 'sooty', a person in need of forgiveness and renewal, a person who is truly a beloved child of God." I told her of what is important to me and that is to look into the mirror at this mark of terrible beauty and be reminded that this is the brand I choose to wear forever ... each day ... in some way. "You will wash it off when you are ready, and yet, you will wear it forever."

Tonight, the ashes will be placed on my forehead as they have so many times before. Tonight a friend will experience this for the first time. But for each of us, there is great news in the midst of the hymns-in-a-minor-key, the dimness of lights, the whispers and prayers and ashes and quietness. We are beloved children of God, branded forever by this mark of terrible beauty.

"Never-Ending"

Yesterday morning,
I saw an older man
dressed in torn and dirty clothes.
He was in need of a shave
and surely a hot shower
would have felt good to him.

This man walking along my route
was mumbling to himself
and counting his fingers –
touching each finger to his thumb;
first the right hand -
one, two, three, four, five …
then his left hand -
one, two, three, four, five …
then back to his right hand -
one, two, three, four, five.

And so it went,
on and on
and on and on.
The counting seemed
to never end …
from right hand to left,
from finger to finger
to finger to finger.

What was so important
to this man of the streets?
What words were needing
to come out and be spoken?
Was he just “another one of those”
who mumble to themselves
as they walk along
the roads of our lives?

As I continued my drive to work,
weary from the day before,
angry from two days before,
feeling very alone
from the week so far,
I too began to mumble
and count the ways
to weariness,
to anger,
to aloneness.

How many times
am I to forgive
(both myself and others)?
From right hand to left,
from left hand to right,
and back to the right hand
again…
from finger to finger
to finger to finger …
the counting seems
to never end.

How many times and ways
are the words “Be not afraid”
whispered, written, shouted
to all who fear …
(and don’t we all fear)?
From right hand to left,
from left hand to right,
and back to the right hand
again…
from finger to finger
to finger to finger …
the counting seems
to never end.

And what about God’s Love?
How many times is this Love
seen, felt, whispered,
promised, given and received?
From right hand to left,
from left hand to right,
and back to the right hand
again…
from finger to finger
to finger to finger …
the counting seems
to never end.

If this man is “one of those”,
who mumble and count,
then I am one as well …
one of those
who cannot fathom
such forgiveness,
such assurance,
such Love ...
for it is all
NEVER-ENDING.

(c)2011 anna murdock