My newborn and I made it to Ash Wednesday worship last night while my husband put our 2-year-old son to bed. Last year my older son and I attended an Ash Wednesday service at noon at a congregation I've supplied at about ½ an hour away. I remember feeling a little panicky when I watched my 15-month-old receive the ashes on his forehead. Panicky because this was about death - life too, definitely. But the reality that what we are now will whither away. That I cannot protect my kids from pain and suffering, sin and death.
As a pastor, the privilege of placing the ashes on my beloved congregation members' foreheads was moving. I was immersed in what those ashes meant and also was well-aware of how much could change in a year. I was especially moved when placing the ashen cross upon the foreheads of folks with illness or extreme old age. Especially moved as I placed the cross on those who mourn (a mother of a 20-something year old son and a widower who couldn't imagine his life without his recently deceased wife come immediately to mind). I know I placed that cross upon infants and toddlers heads, but the only emotion I really remember feeling was a sweet love for that young life.
Last year's panic took me by surprise. This year, holding my 2 ½ month old, who had just been baptized 10 days earlier, I teared up as well. But, this time the tears included an incredible trust and thankfulness in the promise of those waters washed over my young one's head.
I'm not sure that I can point to what was different for me from one year to another. But I do know that last night I had a feeling of God's presence that has been difficult for me to sense as I've worshiped with a toddler.
