Ashes and Tears

I held tightly the bowl of ashes in my trembling hands. I stood as straight as I could … until I remembered the lessons I learned from participating in several weddings and unlocked my knees so I wouldn’t swoon, pitch forward, and make it a memorable Ash Wednesday indeed. The pews before me begin to empty as strangers and friends queue in the aisles, faces fixed in looks of contemplation.

I was asked to administer the ashes during the Ash Wednesday service by our pastor about a week before. It was something I had never done before and while it most certainly isn’t the biggest deal in the world, it seemed to me a solemn and holy service I really felt the Lord wanted me to do. So I agreed.

Ash Wednesday, and the Lenten season as a whole, is meant to be a season of reflection during which we remember our own sinfulness and Christ’s sacrifice. It is meant to be a solemn endeavor aiming to deepen our understanding of just how much Christ’s selfless sacrifice means for us. The more we understand about the depths of our own failures and depravity, the more we understand our inability to produce anything good or holy. Only when we comprehend our un-holiness do we really grasp our absolute need for dependence on a Savior.

As I waited patiently for my role in the service to begin, I started contemplating my own life and my past. My past--- oh, what a sordid picture of me at my absolute most selfish and disrespectful. It continually amazes me (dreadfully) how much of my time, my energy, and my thoughts have been wasted pursuing my own disgusting, horrible goals --- all of which left me empty and depressed.

I held the bowl of ashes in my moist palm. I ran my thumb through the coarse palm remains. I listened as the Scriptures were read: “if My people who are called by My name humble themselves and pray and seek My face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, will forgive their sin and will heal their land.” Oh how unworthy I am, I thought. There is nothing I have ever done to warrant the way that the Lord has used me, nothing. All that I have been and all that I have done in sin and selfishness should have more than disqualified me from His service, and yet He has seen fit to use me despite my past, despite my shallow faith, and despite my obvious deficiencies. Praise the Lord for His mercy is great!

Tears welled in my eyes (I never cry) as my friends and family approach. I mark their foreheads or hands mechanically while my thoughts remain marked by my own sinfulness and stricken by the boundless mercy of the Lord. His mercy is great indeed.

When God Destroyed Me

There are plenty of times that I don’t feel qualified for doing student ministry (most times if I’m honest). The longer I stick around working with students the older I feel, the less I know, and the more things I realize that I’m not any good at. I’m not just talking about Instagram or Twitter but simple stuff, like retreat registrations and emails. Sometimes I marvel at all the ways that I don’t fit the job description that I would write for myself.

And then…

There are days like today. As I was running this evening (all my best thoughts come while running or hiking) I was overcome by the prayer requests of one of my students. There were so many similarities between this student’s story and mine. I ached in prayer for the Lord to move in and reveal truth and heal hurts. My body physically hurt (probably helped by the fact I hadn’t run in a few days) with emotion. It was as if my entire being was crying out in prayer (minus actual words).

And I was reminded of something from years ago…

I have always had a strong empathetic reflex. Even before I became a Christ-follower I would often be struck by severe pangs of pain, sorrow, and joy over the concerns of others. I remember one such encounter that left me ruined. I was at a Halloween party and a friend’s house (I didn’t have many friends). I didn’t know anyone at the party besides the host and so I awkwardly mingled my way around, upstairs, downstairs, outside. I watched as the other guests watched The Lost Boys in the basement and I felt an overwhelming, palpable darkness and despair. I had to leave the room. I made my way outside (it was somewhat warm for October) into the backyard. The host’s mother had a converted school bus out back. To this day I remember watching the adolescent lust as couple after couple circled off in the backyard to give away parts of themselves they would never get back. I briefly entered the bus to find the seats nearly full with other teens. I remember the darkness. My chest felt like it was caving in. I sat down beside the bus and sobbed silent tears. I felt destroyed at the brokenness and despair of the strangers who surrounded me.

Perhaps, God was preparing me. Perhaps He has designed this reaction in me to keep me from being judgmental or distant. Perhaps His desire is to break me to the point where all I can do is to cry out to Him in prayer.

Most often, that’s I can do.

What Will You Remember of Me?

This evening I indulged in a pleasure that I wish were more a part of my regular existence: I finished my evening sitting in front of a crackling fire in my fireplace. With my feet warming on a stool, my eyes pass over the bookshelves lining the walls. My attention is drawn to a simple wood carving of a bald eagle. Having just seen this very animal earlier in the day I am aware of the many ways in which the carving differs from the real thing. The eye is too perfectly round. The beak too curved. One of its talons is twisted unnaturally. Its feet rest upon a of piece driftwood which has been broken and hastily reassembled.

Yet the eagle sits upon my shelf overlooking the expanse of my living room not for its perfection but for its creator. The figure was carved by my grandfather, now departed. It is for that reason that this figure is more than a sum of its parts. It remains a physical memory of his life and effort. As I ponder these things I am reminded of how few tokens of his life I possess. In fact, my memories of his life are far fewer that I would like. I can already feel my own memories of him slipping into the fog of history. What do I truly have that encapsulates this man’s life? What will be remembered of him?

My thoughts, as if bidden by an unseen oarsman are swiftly swept onto my own existence. What will be remembered of me? It is the question that plagues Man with a doggedness only equaled by the certainty of his own mortality. Our days are like a vapor. Our flesh is like grass. Here today and gone tomorrow. What will become of us? What will become of me?

Even in the limited sphere of my life I ponder what of me will remain. My daughter, now nearly two, what would she remember of me if I were to vanish from this earth? Would I be a mere carving on the mantelpiece to her? Would she remember the way I yelled at her when she poured a drink on the floor? Would she remember the times I was too occupied by some pointless news story to sit down and play with her? Would she remember my worries and anxieties; the way the weaknesses and sins of my past haunted me? What of my doubts and fear? My grumbling and complaining? What memories am I making for her? What kind of legacy am I leaving?

Paul sets a mighty example for us when he writes to “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say rejoice! Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near. Be anxious for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

Will this be my legacy? Will I be known by my trust in the Lord or by my doubting? How am I building my legacy? On the presupposition of my own efforts? Or am I building it upon the character of the Lord? My own efforts will fail. I should know that by now. My own projects, as successful as they might seem, are but a passing wind, lost very quickly to the swiftness of time. What will remain? The Lord only. My only legacy is in Him and in my trust in Him. Will my daughter see that in me? Will she in my life the majesty of my Creator? Could she discern from the memory of me the character of God? As I rest my eyes this night, the question resonates: what will she remember of me?