I have yet to experience such scared connection across a tablet screen in these, the year of our Lord, 2020 and the fledgling 2021. Holding hands with someone beginning their transition into death can be a holy experience, seeing the peace enter their eyes as they see something I cannot yet see. Isolation and economic instability in a time of brutally revealed cruelty and madness has been a toxic cocktail to many of our most vulnerable. The disease of addiction that torments people dear to me has clawed them back into its grasp after months, even years, of sobriety. I have seen stark images of violence and death on computer screens and splashed in the most unholy of ways across social media, devoid of the warmth that comes from human contact. I saw sweeter smiles than mine crushed into hot pavement by the thick rubber of a policeman’s boot. Between last Ash Wednesday and this one I have watched flesh melt from the bones of beloved parishioners, consumed by Covid-19 and its wretched aftermath. Never before have I felt such a raw clench in my gut as I remember that I am on borrowed time. 10 more years than we presume Jesus had on this earth. I’m frightened of Ash Wednesday this year.

Growing from a head the color of rich garden soilīut I have been left in the sun too long.Īching for the rush of sweet fresh water.

The following poem was written on a sleepless night sometime in May of 2020. Content Notice: This Ash Wednesday commentary deals starkly with death, dying, racism, homophobia, sexism, violence, addiction, and mental health challenges.

Imposition of ashes for grief