Ash Wednesday is hard on a mother’s heart.

It is one thing to consider your own mortality. But I remember the first time the ashes were placed on my baby girl. Something inside me wanted to reach out and stop the pastor. My heart said No! That black stuff does not belong on my sweet little child. But the pastor put them there, and every time I looked at them I was surprised all over again.

            Little Lorraine quickly forgot the ashes on her head, and had no understanding of why they were there in the first place. She smiled and flirted with me with her big brown eyes all during church, and I was struck by her cheerfulness in contrast to the portent of death on her forehead.

            My children are mortal and I would rather not think about that. It is easier to pretend that life will keep going just as it is right now, to imagine that I will be here to comfort and love my babies forever. It is not hard to join the world’s denial of death. There are plenty of things to distract myself with, and when then thoughts come anyway, I can soothe myself by putting it so far in the future that it feels less threatening.

As adults, we know that the smooth skin on our babies will not stay perfect forever. We know that toddlers (and teenagers) are not invincible, even though they believe they are. Yet we are still shocked when they get the high fevers we cannot treat, when they do something dangerous (like eat glass!) and have to be rushed to the ER. We are shocked to be reminded that we live in the “valley of the shadow of death,” and that our children are vulnerable to this death just as much as we are.

           God’s word intrudes into our comfortable little worlds to remind us of what we already know: this life is not going to last forever. It is easy to get caught up in training our children merely for life in this world. While it is a good thing to have a house that runs smoothly and children that are clean and relatively kind to each other, that is only a part of our vocation as parents.

           This life is not going to last forever. We need to say this out loud to ourselves, and to our children. We must remember those ashes, and take to heart those ER trips. We must teach our children that they live in fragile bodies in a dangerous world, and remind them that their hope is in God alone. Every minute of this life is a complete gift from a Father who loves us more than we can imagine—a Father who plans to have us with Him in heaven forever. His grace frees us to live with joy in these mortal bodies. His love frees us to giggle like toddlers, sometimes, even under the shadow of death.

Christ is Risen—He is Risen indeed.

As a father has compassion on his children,
so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him;

for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.

As for man, his days are like grass,
he flourishes like a flower of the field;

the wind blows over it and it is gone,
and its place remembers it no more.

But from everlasting to everlasting
the LORD's love is with those who fear him,
and his righteousness with their children's children-

Psalm 103:13-17

(written on the old blog in 2005)

photo credit photobucket

Beautiful are the hands

“From dust you are and to dust you shall return.”

He says this to each man, woman, and child in the congregation.
I bring him my children. Our children. He says it again.

“From dust you are and to dust you shall return.”

Does it prick his heart at all as he says these things to our baby?
Does any part of him object, rebel, when it looks on the dark mark on his own son or daughter?

My heart rebels, argues. Why death?
But I already know why, and the hard truth of it squeezes my heart.

How many of these, on whom he places ashes, will he bury?
How many will hear these words again at a graveside? How soon?
Our time is short.

The hand that holds mine as husband now touches my forehead as pastor. I receive what I’d rather ignore, and from such a hand.

Is there a part of him that trembles at the thought of my body’s death, even as I do at his?
Or has the faithful confidence of office soaked through his vestments and saturated his inner man?

Bodies file forward, receiving outwardly this mark of mortality. It fits, a little, with the aching joints, the graying hair, the weariness. It does not seem to fit on the children, and yet I remember. Tiny limbs can turn to dust, too.

I remember our hospital-fresh babies, resting in their father's gentle hands.
I see tiny limbs in pastor’s hands, 
dressed in white for Baptism. 
I see pastor’s hands touching the soft foreheads, 
saying with the authority of God Himself:

“ Receive the sign of the holy cross † 

on your forehead and † your heart 

to mark you as one redeemed 

by Christ the crucified”

I marvel at his steady hands, delivering Law and Gospel to weak-kneed saints.

His words, his hands tell us again that we are needy, crumbling.
His words, his hands make the sign of the cross in blessing, passing on solid peace to needy souls.

His hands.  His words, passing on His Words.

Reminding dust that-- in Jesus-- dust lives.

originally posted 4/12

Ash Wednesday: Death on the Face

And so, Lent begins, with the unusual Christian ritual of looking death in the face, and wearing it on our faces.  I find it hard, but necessary and good. It is a reminder to me, that life will not always be this way.

Death is real. But God is good. 

God's children turn their eyes to Him during this Lenten season. We remember the unseen things, the eternal things, and their importance over that  which is earthly.

We remember our lost condition, we feel the reality of our sin, and we ache with the need for a Savior. 

Darkness gathers, around us and within us. We strain our eyes to see the light, and that Light is the Life of the World.

We look to Him, our Jesus, who suffered for us.  We crawl up into Him, and we hide in Him, and we abide in Him.  And He who overcame the grave holds us fast in His grip.

I shall lie down and sleep in peace, 

for You alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.

Psalm 4:8

You may also enjoy:

Beautiful are the hands

Ash Wednesday

Hard on a mother's heart

On fasting

photo credit : Time