From Dust we came...

That's what the older lady told her as she dipped her finger in a bowl of ash. This lady was shorter, stockier, she was wearing a dress. "From dust we came and to dust we shall return. Go and be blessed."

The younger woman accepted the sign of the cross on her forehead with the ash. She made her way through the seats set up in the darkened room. Everyone she walked past had the same symbol on their forehead: a sign much older than anyone in this room. a sign dating back two thousand years... the symbol of ash... well, that was ever far older. It seemed strange and unifying at the same time, to be a small part of something that had endured so long and would endure longer still. The ancient sign of mourning.

She'd been instructed to write out a prayer of confession. She really had no idea where to start. She started scribbling, paused, felt overwhelmed. There is no way God could possibly use me now, was her thought and it gave her pause. How many sermons and talks and lectures had she heard on that very topic...? She'd never felt it applied to her. Those sermons applied to the real "screwups". To the women who'd had abortions. The adulterers. The murderers. The people in jail or on drugs. However, she now felt the very real  shame that accompanies anyone with whom life has dealt some blows. It was the same way she'd felt after her brother's death. The shame that came with retreating into a bottle. The shame that came from rejecting God. . .

It was doubt. Misdirection. Anger and rebellion.

It was the same. The human condition boiled right on down. Oh, Lord.

But at the end of the service, they were instructed to leave in silence. They were told to leave the room, exit the building, find the burning trash can off to the side and put their Prayer of Confession inside. It will be a burnt offering, she said. It will be a sweet smelling sacrifice to God.

They followed suit, she followed the crowd-- maybe 75 people-- outside and they lined up in front of a metal barel with a fire going inside. When the young woman dropped her slip of paper in the can, she felt no weight lift from her shoulders. She has done enough symbolic acts in her life to know that nothing would change until she did... but the mark on her forehead, now, that was something else. She wished she could've worn it all day. She wanted to go out with the mark still on her skin, out to Price Chopper, Starbucks, Target... she wanted the whole world to know that she was Not Perfect but that she was trying. She wanted them to know how important this was to her. How it might just save her yet.

She did go to Price Chopper that night and then went home. She made chicken and peppers and drank a bottle of Shock Top and washed her face. The reflection stared back at her wanly. One day down, 39 to go...