My oldest was not even two years old the first time I took him to an Ash Wednesday service and went up with him for the imposition of ashes. His big blue eyes were wide with curiosity as my husband, who was the parish priest, made the sign of the cross in oily ashes on his still baby-soft forehead.
“Remember you are dust and to dust you will return.”
My heart clenched in a way it never had before. Ash Wednesday is one of those quirky liturgical things that marks you out as you walk around with dirt on your face all day, and you watch people do a double take and debate whether or not to say anything.
Sure, I’m dust. No big deal.
But to think that my baby is dust. Whew. That’s a whole other thing.
People in my social media feeds have been getting a kick out of Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day falling on the same day this year.
It’s as if the idea that thinking about love and death in the same breath is something we can't look directly at, and so we have to find ways to laugh at it.
I l…
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