I was not expecting the holiness. 

The messiness, yes.  I was expecting that.  The time it took: these things always take a ridiculous amount of time, so I knew to set aside at least 90 minutes, maybe more.  Mostly I was expecting detail-work, maybe a little tediousness.  So the holiness took me completely by surprise.

Ash Wednesday is still a few weeks away but I have learned the hard way throughout this pandemic that preparation is key if you want to help folks create spaces in their lives and their hearts and their routines for prayer and worship and connection when showing up on Sunday mornings (or Ash Wednesdays) for an in-person liturgy is no longer an option. 

So, a few weeks ago I texted the parishioner, Eric, who always burns the palms for me: if I dropped them off at his door could he get me ashes by the end of the month?  Yes, he could. 

On my one day in the office this (and every) week – Wednesdays, which seemed especially fitting for this particular task – I picked up the ashes from Eric’s front porch.  When I got to the office, I set them aside.  I would find some time this day to divide them up for my congregants.  I had already purchased the tiny, clear acrylic pots.  My plan was to put a small offering of ashes in each pot, add a drop or two of oil to make them a manageable consistency should anyone want to actually impose ashes on themselves or their family members on the day, and then include one pot in each of the bags of “Lenten Kits” distributed to my small congregation in the week before Ash Wednesday. 

The distribution of the ashes into those little pots was a task I kept meaning to get to but the day sped by.  I Zoomed with a new parishioner and had the unique privilege of telling her that yes, her questions and doubts are welcome as a gift to and among us.  I read the seminarian’s draft of her first sermon for our congregation and provided some comments.  I chatted a few extra minutes with the kind lady who works the counter at my favorite deli where I picked up lunch.  I sent lots of emails, received some more, and had to reply again. 

Finally, I thought, this task has just got to be done today.  So I picked up the lidded tub of ashes and looked through the clear glass of the container. 

Usually, after the previous year’s Palm Sunday, we have lots of leftover palms.  Aside from the ones that were just never used in the service, there are the ones that folks put down on their way out the door.  Most people don’t know what to do with their blessed palms so leaving them at church seems the best bet.  Which is fine with me.  I have a special place at the very top of my bookshelves where those palms stay for eight or nine months, slowly drying out, until I remember to lift them down, dust them off, and take them to Eric for burning. 

But last Palm Sunday, back in early April, was celebrated in the pandemic, too.  We ended up mailing palms to parishioners.  Which worked surprisingly well.  But, unsurprisingly, nobody mailed their palms back to us after Easter.  So the bunch I gave to Eric for burning was a lot smaller than usual.  And as I looked at the resulting ashes I wondered if there would be enough. 

***

For the first few years as rector of my parish, I didn’t ask Eric to burn palms for our Ash Wednesday liturgy; I asked Roy.  An old Black man in our predominantly White parish, Roy sang in the choir, had a big heart for the small kids in our parish, took a cab or caught a ride everywhere because he realized one night that he “either had to give up drinking or give up driving” so he chose the latter, and was one of those “oaks of righteousness” of our little parish family.  Every year, Roy would burn the palms for me and I would arrive at the office one day in late January to find a red Solo cup filled nearly to the brim with fine gray ash. 

There was always so much of it.  There was always too much of it.  I could never use it all in one Ash Wednesday service for 50-odd people.  So I just kept it in a little Tupperware in the sacristy.  Every year, I’d add a little more to my little pot of “extra” ash.  I would chide myself each time.  It was so stupid.  Why would I keep extra ash just lying around all these years?  Useless.  Unblessed.  Just sitting there.  Dead.  As dead as Roy is now, may he rest in peace.  I should just bury them in the ground in the garden along with other deceased beloved ones: Harry Coleman or Roger Prior or my own father-in-law. 

And then, in the last days of January 2021, ten months into a raging global pandemic, when no one really needs a reminder of our own mortality, do we?, I looked through the glass of Eric’s container and thought, there’s not going to be enough ash.

So I got up, walked through the garden, unlocked the church and entered the musty sacristy.  I opened the cabinet and peered in.  There it was.  The top shelf.  The white circular Tupperware with a blue lid and a little bit of masking tape on top marked “ashes.”  It’s not in my handwriting; I think it must be Roy’s. 

I peeled back the lid and saw them: an abundance of ashes.  A belated blessing.  One last posthumous gift of Roy’s faithfulness. 

It was only the beginning of the holy…