A child on Ash Wednesday

Ash Wednesday

The procession up to receive the imposition of ashes.
The movement back to our pews,
dark, messy crosses thumbed on our foreheads.

Down the aisle returns the crossed mother with her child,
Less than two years old,
The solemn smudge on her little forehead, too.
She too had heard the words:
"Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."
What did she understand of that?
What did I understand of that?

Seeing her, my heart ached.

We are united in the great sorrow and suffering of being human.
Along the way, she will suffer.
Long after I am dead and gone,
She too will die.

Yet her eyes sparkled,
Her smile beamed benediction across the gathering.
I remembered the ancient words:
"If we have been united with him in a death like his,
We will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his."

We live the cross,
But ineffable is the joy of the saints.