Tuesday, March 8, 2011

2011.03.09 Ashes. Ashes......

I think like an adult .... but I wonder like a child.

I thought “ashes ashes” was a nursery rhyme, a kid’s game (not about the Bubonic plague, btw)

I wondered if it were also the Wisdom of God reminding me that any minute now I could fall down and skin my knee, or more.

Today I thought . . . phone poles are dead trees put into service so we humans can gossip or call loved ones to make sure they are alive.

I wondered if the tall straight once-tree poles drew water from the well of the earth like living trees do, miraculously defying gravity one of our most precise and precious laws.

I THOUGHT on Ash Wednesday that the ashes in the small bowl were the remains of the palms from last year’s Palm Sunday— funeral reminders of great expectations gone sour. And I thought ashes were a powerful symbol to let us know we all will die unrequited in many ways.

I THOUGHT, then what?

I WONDERED if the ashes in the small cardboard box were really my father, at last all contained and right there to scoop up into the palms of my hands, kiss goodbye, and toss once more into the waiting hole in the damp ground.

I WONDERED, then what?

I THOUGHT Lent was a somber but not depressing time, just to stop and reflect, maybe learn a thing or two about what to do differently the next time you . . ., or he . . ., or they . . ., or it . . .

I WONDERED if Lent were really 40 days of Jesus’ starving and praying and wasting away in the desert wilderness without his Mom and Dad or any friends to love, stuck alone with an invisible God he began to call Abba.

I THOUGHT that was a crucible of unnecessary proportions for a very good man.

I WONDERED if that was why my small grandson insisted on having his door open at night, wide open to house light and moonlight, to escape, to give an opening for the sound of his voice should it call out, or to the sound of his Daddy’s footsteps running toward his open door.

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