Ash Wednesday Morning Confession
Ash Wednesday
with thanks to Alicia Ostriker
Today, walking with my daughter
among trees tipped with swollen buds,
I am marked by these ashes mixed with oil.
From dust I came, to dust I will return.
Restless above thawing earth,
robins sweep black-tipped wings against the sky.
I hold my daughter's arm close to my side,
tighten the dog's leash.
Let me someday be the old woman
who lived and worked so hard
God's love washed right through.
Let me someday be the old woman
who lifts withering arms to bless
all that comes and all that returns.
_
I stole the italicized lines (above) from Alicia Ostriker's poem "The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog. Here is the entire first verse: To be blessed/said the old woman/is to live and work/so hard/God’s love/washes right through you/like milk through a cow. I love the last verse--you will too when you read the whole beautiful poem HERE.
_
This year, the oily ash trickled immediately into the wrinkles on my forehead, especially the two deep creases between my eyes that worked themselves there during years of children; worry and confusion as I tried to keep them alive and well; a lot of laughter; some deeply sad personal tragedies. Looking in the car mirror after service, I found my darkened worry/confused/sad lines oddly comforting. I am aging. Someday I will return to dust. That day is much closer than it was when I was twenty with a smooth forehead.
I remember a day some years ago, hiking through a young, green forest in Montana two years after a forest fire. New shoots, so young and supple, pushed their way up through the fertile, blackened soil--some of the trees were just knee-high, and flowers bloomed under an open, bright sky. Likewise we in our frailty--we, made-of-dirt-and-ash, do not merely intercept the eternal. No, the the eternal washes through us--God washes through us, like "milk though a cow." (I love the earthiness of that image).
And so this truth--we are frail, humble creations capable of extraordinary, robust, everlasting love--fills us with the courage to "go out into the world to serve God with gladness; to be of good courage; to hold fast to that which is good."
Here is the entire benediction that concluded the Ash Wednesday service today (at the local First Lutheran Church) and sent us all out into the world, marked by our own mortality and--therefore and yet-- charged to be what my friend J.A. calls "Love Warriors:
with thanks to Alicia Ostriker
Today, walking with my daughter
among trees tipped with swollen buds,
I am marked by these ashes mixed with oil.
From dust I came, to dust I will return.
Restless above thawing earth,
robins sweep black-tipped wings against the sky.
I hold my daughter's arm close to my side,
tighten the dog's leash.
Let me someday be the old woman
who lived and worked so hard
God's love washed right through.
Let me someday be the old woman
who lifts withering arms to bless
all that comes and all that returns.
_
I stole the italicized lines (above) from Alicia Ostriker's poem "The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog. Here is the entire first verse: To be blessed/said the old woman/is to live and work/so hard/God’s love/washes right through you/like milk through a cow. I love the last verse--you will too when you read the whole beautiful poem HERE.
_
This year, the oily ash trickled immediately into the wrinkles on my forehead, especially the two deep creases between my eyes that worked themselves there during years of children; worry and confusion as I tried to keep them alive and well; a lot of laughter; some deeply sad personal tragedies. Looking in the car mirror after service, I found my darkened worry/confused/sad lines oddly comforting. I am aging. Someday I will return to dust. That day is much closer than it was when I was twenty with a smooth forehead.
I remember a day some years ago, hiking through a young, green forest in Montana two years after a forest fire. New shoots, so young and supple, pushed their way up through the fertile, blackened soil--some of the trees were just knee-high, and flowers bloomed under an open, bright sky. Likewise we in our frailty--we, made-of-dirt-and-ash, do not merely intercept the eternal. No, the the eternal washes through us--God washes through us, like "milk though a cow." (I love the earthiness of that image).
And so this truth--we are frail, humble creations capable of extraordinary, robust, everlasting love--fills us with the courage to "go out into the world to serve God with gladness; to be of good courage; to hold fast to that which is good."
Here is the entire benediction that concluded the Ash Wednesday service today (at the local First Lutheran Church) and sent us all out into the world, marked by our own mortality and--therefore and yet-- charged to be what my friend J.A. calls "Love Warriors:
Go into the world to serve God with gladness;
be of good courage;
hold fast to that which is good;
render to no one evil for evil;
strengthen the fainthearted;
support the weak;
help the afflicted;
honor all people;
love and serve God, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.
Thanks be to God.
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