on letting go

--mary oliver

last night we had ezra with us in the ash wednesday service.  he had been in the nursery with the other kids, but our pager went off halfway through.  aaron went to retrieve him and they came back just in time for the imposition of ashes.  as i held ezra on the way to the altar rail, i could feel him taking deep breaths, calming himself from his crying.  i wiped the wet tears from his chubby little cheeks.  i set him down to perch on the rail while we waited for our turn.  aaron received his ashes, i received mine, and then our priest asked if ezra should have some too.  i said yes and watched as he made the sign of the cross on my little boy's forehead.  "remember that you are dust, and to dust you will return."  ezra was quiet and still, watching with wonder at the movements in front of him.

i don't like to think about my little baby being dust, or returning to dust, ever.  i'm sure it is the hardest thing possible for mothers to do.  and how?  he is so full of life!!  moving, talking, laughing, touching, tasting, crying, reaching, gobbling, yelling... nearly every waking minute!  even as the service continued, ezra's breathless little laugh filled the somber spaces of quiet in our big sanctuary.  serious parishioners, dark splotches on their foreheads, laughed too.

later, after we retrieved noah and isla from the nursery, they stared at our ashy foreheads.  when we had given them the choice to join us for the service or to stay and play, they chose to play.  but now they wanted the ashes.  we walked back into the sanctuary and found father jonathan.  "do you still have any ashes left?" i asked.  "we have a few more people who want to receive."  he smiled and led us back to the altar rail.  the kids were serious, knelt down and watched as he retrieved the small silver bowl.  he rubbed his thumb inside, made the sign of the cross on their heads, and reminded them that they were dust.  we thanked him and walked away.

on the way home, isla asked, "how did they make jesus's body stay on the cross?"  i took a deep breath, but noah answered quickly.  "with nails," he said.  "they nailed his body."  "where did they nail him?" isla asked.  "on his hands and feet," i answered.  "that doesn't seem like enough to make him die," noah commented.  "maybe it was because that made him bleed," i told them, nervously, hoping they wouldn't ask me to explain further.  i want to protect them from any more painful details, from any more sad reality.

but they don't seem bothered by it.  they accept it as the past and rejoice in jesus's rebirth.  they look forward to heaven.  they take comfort in the presence of angels.

i wish i could accept these hard things with their simple faith.  lent is hard for me.  i don't like this part of the story.  i mourn with mary, the mother, and mary, the friend.  i feel chastised too when jesus says, "do not hold on to me."  i want to hold on.  to a living, breathing jesus.  to my children full of life.  i don't ever want to let go.

so this is what i'm thinking about this lent.  how to trust like a child that everything will be alright in the end, even in death.  to not fear.  to be comforted by angels.  to let go.