Ashes to Ashes

Last Wednesday was the day Christians in the Western Tradition know as "Ash Wednesday".  A day when we are reminded of our own fragility and mortality: "Remember, man that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return." As a cross of black ash created from the burnt destruction of the palms so lovingly saved from the Palm Sunday of the previous year will be drawn on the forehead, and we once again gather the formerly green and subtle, now tried, brittle and cracking palms, and watch as they are burned into dusty ash the night before at the Shrove Tuesday pancake supper as the children gathere around, at a safe distance, of course, from the "bonfire" of these year old palms writhing in the hot flames of the contained fire. It is always interesting to watch the faces of those who gather around this flame: the young are mesmerized, and their parents are watching over the children; older members have a rather melancholy look as if they are remembering the Lent in times past, perhaps in their own childhood when the burning palms held such fascination. Or are they remembering when family, friends and lovers long gone were here to share in the yearly time of repentance and rebirth? 

At the Ferry

The next morning we took some ashes to a rather public place for distribution in addition to the two services at our church.  This was our second year at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal in St. George on the Staten Island side of the boat.  Most of the folks rushing onto the waiting ferries were commuters dashing off to work or students commuting to high schools and colleges on the other side of the bay.

Business men and women, terminal and other transit workers, construction workers , TSA employees with their dogs in tow, all lined up with the others getting their ashes on the go.


"Remember, man that thou art dust..." Those words repeated again and again: for woman and man, for young and old, for sinner and saint, for mother and child.  A reminder that we are but here for a finite amount of time, and that time is "...slip, sliding away" (Thank you, Paul Simon).

And then a reminder about the fragility of life on the next day.  A funeral for a friend, gone too soon of a heart attack at 56.  He leaves behind an adoring wife and three sons on the brink of manhood.  He leaves behind a dream unfulfilled. Having been downsized with the down turn of the financial markets, he realized while volunteering with hungry people, that he had a gift for helping and was "this close" to completing his degree in Social Work...so vey close.  A life cut short, but a life well lived, nonetheless.

And a wake for the grandmother of several young adults, and the mother of a recently retired couple....a mother who at times distanced herself from members of her family who wondered why.  She lived through a time of discrimination when her accent marked her as different. After her death, her family gathers to mourn with different and varied memories of the woman.  A long life lived, to what end?




It is still the same: dust to dust.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tH2w6Oxx0kQ