For a moment, I thought about staying in the sacristy to divide up the ashes into the little acrylic pots.  That would be the holiest place to do it, the liturgically and theologically right place.  But, like so much in my experience of this pandemic, what made theological sense was diametrically opposed to what made practical sense.  And the sacristy was not a very practical place for this work. 

So I took all my supplies over to St. Mary’s Parish Hall and unlocked the kitchen.  I spread out the ingredients along the countertop: the two different tupperware of ashes, the dozens of little pots, lids unscrewed and set aside, the small jar of oil.  And in the moment that I was ready to begin, I had a vision of Donna or Ann, Jane or the other Anne, the women who have spread out their equipment in this kitchen over the past decades to feed Thankful Ones during the many “Eatin’ Sundays” that the church has celebrated together.  Maybe the kitchen of the Parish Hall was the theologically right place to do this work after all. 

With renewed vigor, I opened the tubs, starting with the ashes that Eric had just burned for me.  Immediately, the smokiness overwhelmed me like incense.  I breathed it in, that familiar scent of death, yes, but also of the life of this parish – of all the Ash Wednesdays we have celebrated together.  Eric’s ashes had bits of whole palm still visible, bright yellow against all that black and gray.  When I opened Roy’s ancient ashes, the smoky smell was a bit staler but still present and the ash was all perfectly smooth – like he (or I in some earlier year?) had strained out all the unburnt chunks. 

With a teaspoon, I lifted out some ash from the containers and began tapping it into the small acrylic pots, filling ten in the first go.  And then I unscrewed the lid to the oil and a whole new wave of smells filled the air: olive oil and cinnamon, calamus and rose.  I poured a few drops of the holy liquid into each little pot of ash until the consistency was just right for smearing onto skin.  I wouldn’t be doing the smearing this year, but perhaps touch could still be shared across time and space: my tapping down of the ash in each pot with my fingers, their picking it up again in a few weeks’ time and crossing their own foreheads with it.  My skin to theirs, in a way.

And then the work went on.  The silky, sticky globs of ash and oil forming just so.  And I discovered I was counting and praying simultaneously.  Maybe this one would end up with Tom and Ann.  Number two might be picked up by Carly and the twins.  Three: maybe the young Ross family?  Four: Jane – our matriarch.  Five: The Websters – God, may their bodies be healed by this ash; may they come in person to next year’s service so that I can bless them with this reminder of our mortality.  Six… seven… eight… on and on.  Ash and oil, prayers and numbers.  Mixing and measuring.  Making sure there’s enough.  Like filling tiny cupcake tins.  And then the dabs of oil like I’m about to roast Brussels sprouts or carrots. 

But this is for praying over and for prayer.  This is for the remembering that we are only mortal and that we are carried through life – and death – by our love for one another and God’s love for us. 

And when it was all done, I surveyed the ranks of ash before me and breathed in the sacred air.  And, holding out my hands, said the blessing over them:

Almighty God, you have created us out of the dust of the earth: Grant that these ashes may be to us a sign of our mortality and penitence, that we may remember that it is only by your gracious gift that we are given everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Savior.  Amen.

And I whispered in my heart a prayer of healing for each one of my beloved Thankful Ones and for our whole broken world in need of repentance.  And the promise of Christ was whispered back to me: the promise of healing and wholeness, life and love, and redemption, reconciliation and resurrection at its end.