Chelsea Boes: Cupid, ashes and the beginning of Lent
In the church calendar, Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent. The day’s supposed to be about remembering you will die — memento mori, fine old paintings of skulls, the sand timer of your life already tipped over and emptying fast, etc. In my case, though, Ash Wednesday is the day your kids are so naughty in church they actually kill you.
This year, Ash Wednesday fell on Feb. 14, the day kids tote home backpacks of candy with attached notes reading, “I think you’re totally rawr-some,” “you’ve gotta pizza my heart,” and “Yoda best.”
“Let’s try to ration the candy they eat today,” I advised my husband that morning as we left the school drop-off line.
“Let them have a little fun,” he countered. “It’s Valentine’s Day”
He was right, of course. I remember the thrill of Valentine's parties from my own public schooled childhood. At the same time, I’m pretty sure I’m the last bastion of hope separating my dependents from dental catastrophe.
But it turns out dental considerations were the least of my problems this year.
Let me interest you in a little church math. To get to church with small children for a 6:30 p.m. service, you must start feeding them dinner as soon as possible. You finish work at 5. Twenty minutes later, your husband helpfully throws the world’s quickest meal on the table — quesadillas and rice. The kids, stuffed with Fun Dip and Smarties, barely eat. You don’t have time to fight, so you herd them out the door, carefully using your right leg to keep the dog in while they get out. You remember that the little one is getting a cold and go back in to grab some medicine from the cupboard.
You watch the minutes fly by on Interstate 40 West. Unless the space-time continuum tears, you’re going to be late. Still, you stare at the clock every other minute to hurry things along. In the backseat, one kid wants the music changed. The other cries because her Gabby’s Dollhouse Lego minifig lost its hair.
More: Opinion: Let's learn to put down the phone and be present and focused on our children
More: Opinion: As spring arrives in Asheville, longing for an affordable home to grow a garden
When you get to the church parking lot, one kid moans that it’s going to be boring. The other’s nose is running and you didn’t bring a wipe. You pass the church windows: Everyone inside is already kneeling in penitential prayer.
Your kids file into the back row. For a moment, everything will be OK.
Then the little one drops a toy, can’t find it, and starts to shriek. Vexed by her sister, the elder flops down in the aisle.
You usher them to the foyer. But this is your first Ash Wednesday as an Anglican and you don’t want to miss it. You barely even know what Ash Wednesday is. You coax the kids back in while one whisper-wails that she has nothing to do. The other disembowels your purse in the pew, ogling the shiny sleeve of cards in your wallet that will describe your whole existence to a first responder in the event of an accident: 5-foot-1, organ donor, patron of Ingles and Big Lots. The top card in the sleeve, importantly, identifies your Mirena IUD — evidence that you already have all the children you can handle. While you’re not looking, the child also extracts a bottle of lotion, squeezes out the contents, and rubs it through her hair.
You rise with everyone else as the service closes. Should you cry? Swear? Preserve your dignity by running out the back door without making eye contact with anyone? You move toward the white-robed priest. He crosses a thumb full of black soot onto your forehead saying, “Remember that you are dust,” then repeats it for each of your children in turn.
More: Chelsea Boes: New vegetarian diet has couple making beautiful dishes together
More: Chelsea Boes: Marriage advice on rocks in a jar evokes memories, sparks new ideas
One complains of boredom again, saying, “I’m gonna die!”
“That’s the point,” you answer. You realize, though, that what’s really dying tonight is your pride.
But isn’t that the nature of life with God? You’re dust. You’re limited. You’re impatient and you care way too much about seeming like you have your crap together. You need a lot of help. Your kids do, too. A famous Psalm claims that even God is kind enough to bear in mind our weakness: “He remembers that we are dust.”
Your new church friend, Kenda, says afterward that she heard your kid crying and prayed, “Lord, let Chelsea know she’s doing a good job.” Exposed by this compassion in the face of your own weakness, you almost do cry. Anyway, that’s the end of the equation. You minus pride equals love. Valentines and ashes at once.
Chelsea Boes lives in Old Fort and works as editor of WORLDkids Magazine in Biltmore Village.
This article originally appeared on Asheville Citizen Times: Chelsea Boes: Cupid, ashes and the beginning of Lent