Ash Wednesday morning. Mr. D sleeps in to about 8:30, which means that if I want to make it to 9am Mass, we will need to leave immediately. I sigh, realizing that it's not going to happen. Oh, well.
As I sit down with Mr. D over applesauce and cheerios (his breakfast, not mine!), I realize that maybe this is what God wants from me right now. He wants me to be right here with my spirited toddler. He wants me to die a little to myself, my wishes, my desires. Because, honestly, I would have loved to have gone to the 9am Mass. To start the Lenten season off properly, with ashes on my forehead as if to say, oh yeah, I'm serious about this. But no. I am sitting beside my little guy who has decided that being spoonfed is for babies, and he wants to hold the spoon and chew on it.
I think I'm being clever, and I get another baby spoon, so we can continue the process of eating applesauce. He manages to get that one too. Now he has a spoon in each hand, eyeing me, as if to say, any better ideas, Mom? I start to wonder how long this power struggle will last: twenty minutes? twenty years? I head for the refrigerator and grab a stick of string cheese. Ah. Mr. D's kryptonite. He lowers one spoon so he can grasp a piece of the cheese. In a few minutes, I have both spoons, and decide he has lost interest in the applesauce.
We head to play group at the church. Lots of little ones this time. One of the moms (and a close friend) asks if we're planning on going to the Ash word service after. I wasn't, since Mr. D is now only taking one nap after lunch. But he seems to be in good spirits as we get closer to noon. We go, along with several other moms with their children in toe. It seems like this was the popular choice for young families--they make up at least half of the congregants. The service is fairly bare bones: a little singing, several readings, a short reflection, and then the distribution of ashes.
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| Pixaby |
We didn't go to church for Ash Wednesday last year, so this was the first time I've gone since Mr. D was born. As I received the ashes, a bold, black cross on my forehead, the following words were spoken: "Remember, you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Yes, I am dust.
And then, the same smudgy cross on my son's head, the same words: "Remember, you are dust, and to dust you shall return." This little baby. He is dust, too? The words, which I so easily accepted in relation to myself, seemed to echo in my ears. I slowly walked back to my seat, and, for the first time, understood the implications of this practice. We are all, whether marked with ashes or not, going to die someday. And while it seems jarring to place ashes on babies and little children, it is true for them as well. The elderly lady who smiled at me, as I shushed and held Mr. D? She is dust. The five children fidgeting behind us, ranging in age from ten to two? They are dust. And my little boy, the one who I would give anything to protect from harm? He is dust.
We are all dust. And to dust, we shall all return.
We may live many long years, and die at a "ripe old age," as our marriage vows say. But we will die. It is a sobering thought. And it would be a terrible one, if death was the end. But I am realizing (slowly, and sometimes painfully) that in giving up my semblance of control, I am handing it over to a most gracious Father. A Father who deeply cares for me, who loves my Mr. D more than I ever could (thank you, Carrie, for this reminder). By letting go, I am falling back into His arms. He knows when our time here is done. May we all be ready to let go when the time comes.
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| Pixaby |
