She-Twin's been talking about it since Sunday.
"On Wednesday, I want to go up and get the ashes on my forehead!"
When asked if she understood the symbolic meaning---that it wasn't merely a forehead-focused variety of face-painting---she responded in the affirmative, and with conviction.
Our church isn't huge in number, but they are huge in heart. Getting the congregation out consecutive nights for an annual traditional Shrove Tuesday pancake supper
and an Ash Wednesday imposition of ashes service is impractical, and unlikely. As such, Lent kicks off with Wednesday pancakes downstairs, followed immediately by a litany-rich service upstairs.
In our experience, fits of giggles rarely come at appropriate times. So it was last night. During the calls and responses. During the prayers. During the scriptures. Despite their best efforts, our sausage-stuffed siblings' shoulders shook, their heads were bowed (not in prayer), and their snickers were poorly stifled.
Then the inconceivable happened: as He-Twin leaned over in an attempt to suppress his laughter at a particularly poignant moment, a toot. Clearly audible from our nearly-front row of seats, surely it was heard by pastors and parishioners alike. Then, Mommy's shoulders shook. Her head was bowed. Her snickers were poorly stifled. No doubt all of us were mentally reciting Double Daddy's oft-repeated chestnut: "He who toots in church, sits in a pew."
At service's end, collectively embarrassed, we knew apologies to our much-loved ministers were in order as we departed the sanctuary. Yes, they'd heard...both the giggles and the gas...and yes, they forgave.
Sarah, so upset, was crying. "I never want to come to Ash Wednesday again. We were just
awful."
Amazingly, isn't that what Ash Wednesday is all about? Acknowledging our shortcomings. Voicing our commitment to do better. Being forgiven.
We Lages do tend to learn things in the most unusual ways. Our genuine apologies to our church family for our collective lack of self control. We
will try to do better.
Amen.
