I hurried to Ash Wednesday Mass across the slushy mess
of the church parking lot, carrying 18-month-old Christa*.
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 Christa 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, 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 Christa 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 Christa 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 Christa
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, Christa 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 Christa
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 Christa 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
Christa 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 Christa 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 Christa, 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 Christa home and baby-sit
while I went to work. He was putting on his baseball
cap and making a silly face at Christa as he walked over
to join us.
“
I missed the ashes,” I said.
“
You did?” He looked at Christa, 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.
*Name changed to protect Christa’s privacy while
she is part of the foster care system.
(Scobey-Polacheck and her husband Bill have two sons,
Jacob and Liam, and a foster daughter who they will be
adopting on April 28. They belong to SS. Peter and Paul,
Milwaukee and St. Monica, Whitefish Bay parishes.) |
