I hurried to Ash
Wednesday Mass across the slushy mess of the church parking lot, carrying
18-month-old Jamilet. Repositioning the
diaper bag on my shoulder, I mentally checked off the things I had packed that
I hoped would buy me 20 minutes of quiet time from my toddler. Twenty minutes —
that’s all I really needed — enough time to get through the readings, the
homily and the ashes. The rest of Mass, I knew from experience, I could kind of
absorb while chasing after Jamilet in the back of church, but if I missed the
readings and the homily, I had nothing. Readings, homily and ashes — those were
my goals for the Mass. I wanted to start Lent off right.
Lately, I had been
feeling like my spirituality was withering a bit. The winter cold and mounds of
snow were providing an excellent excuse to skip my daily run, which often was
my best time to pray. I had a huge overdue fine on my library card (Tarzan had
been lost for over a month) and rather than pay it I was spending my usual
reading time at night watching TV, and I knew my brain was turning to mush. In
addition, my husband Bill and I were struggling to find time for uninterrupted
conversations about anything deeper than whether or not to paint the back
hallway. So here I was, on Ash Wednesday, putting my hopes for spiritual
rejuvenation in a baggie of graham crackers, four board books, a doll with a
working zipper on her dress, goldfish crackers, and the big prize — a Tootsie
Roll sucker. I prayed it would be enough to keep Jamilet still.
I slunk into a pew
next to my good friend, a mom attending Mass child-free because her youngest
was in third grade. She shared her songbook with me as I concentrated on
immediately giving Jamilet a graham cracker so she would be busy right off the
bat. I glanced at my friend, and thought I glimpsed serenity in her eyes. Having your youngest old enough to put on her
own shoes could lead to serenity.
I don’t know if it
was my friend’s air of calm rubbing off, or if I finally happened upon the
right combination of food and interesting books to keep Jamilet occupied, but
whatever the reason, my normally super-active little girl stayed settled and
content on my lap. The readings were strong, the homily was inspiring, and it
felt like a new beginning. The priest compared us to batteries, and said that
Lent provides an opportunity for the positive and the negative to come together
— the positive being the good we try to do during Lent, and the negative, the
bad habits we try to curtail. A car needs both to run properly, and so do we.
As the homily
ended, Jamilet started to get restless, and I brought her to the vestibule,
where four or five other mothers were standing in a cluster, watching their
toddlers run. Perfect, I thought. I’d let Jamilet burn some energy while the
congregation went up to get their ashes, then I’d jump in line at the end.
Readings, homily, ashes. I was almost
home free.
Except I missed
the ashes.
I’m still not sure
how it happened. I chatted quietly for a few minutes (wasn’t it just a few?)
with another mom of a toddler. I put everything back in the lost-and-found box
after Jamilet emptied it. I distracted her with the Tootsie Roll sucker when
she tried to bang on the glass door leading to the school. But then, when I
peeked back into the church, to check where the line was for receiving ashes, I
was appalled to see the final two people receiving their ashes from the second
grade teacher. How did I not notice the other mothers, one by one, leaving the
vestibule to get in line? I briefly
considered running for it, a mad dash for ashes with Jamilet on my hip, but
this seemed to lack a certain solemnity, so I decided against it.
The rest of Mass
was a bit of a blur. I went back to my pew, where Jamilet remained relatively
quiet. Going up to Communion, I couldn’t help but note the black mark on every
person’s forehead. Everyone managed to get themselves to the front of church
for their ashes. Everyone but me. What did that say about me? Yes, I had listened
to the readings, the Gospel, even the homily. But I had missed the ashes. I had
missed the main event. I was annoyed at myself, annoyed at Jamilet, and
slightly bewildered about my strong feelings about a small black mark that I
knew was just a symbol.
After Mass, my dad
came up to me. We had arranged to meet at Mass, so he could take Jamilet home
and baby-sit while I went to work. He was putting on his baseball cap and
making a silly face at Jamilet as he walked over to join us.
“I missed the
ashes,” I said.
“You did?” He
looked at Jamilet, laughed and poked her in the tummy with his index finger.
Then, he took his thumb, rubbed it on his own ashes, and traced a cross on my
forehead.
“Have some of
mine,” he said.
