February 14, Ash Wednesday (Matthew 6:1–6, 16–21)

After 16 years of ordained ministry, my Ash Wednesday experiences were vast and varied: imposing ashes on newborns in their mothers’ arms at the rail next to nonagenarians, the difference in their skins’ elasticity poignant. I imposed ashes on a young man in the hospital right before he was moved to palliative care. I always preached on Ash Wednesday, when I was an associate as well as when I was the rector, because the rector directed me to when I was on staff and because our elderly deacon couldn’t make it to the early service when I was a rector, so I have stacks of old sermons on these readings.

But last year I didn’t preach or preside or impose ashes on anyone. I was one month out from lung surgery, my third: this one was a pneumonectomy completion, meaning my entire left lung was removed after two previous surgeries that took out just part of it. This time, the surgeon discovered that the cancer had spread to my aorta, and he wasn’t able to remove it all, so I was facing dozens of radiation sessions before I could move on to targeted therapy and return to work, if I did return to work.

So last Ash Wednesday, I sat next to my sister who was visiting me from Arizona. She had wanted to come help as soon as possible after my surgery, but I asked her to wait until Ash Wednesday, so that we could be together at church. I couldn’t remember an Ash Wednesday that she and I had spent together. We sat in the nave of the parish I served as rector, waiting to kneel at the altar rail and have ashes imposed on us by my dear friend Andie, who was not only filling in for me at St. David’s but had brought meals to my husband and me soon after the surgery. Attendance was sparse, but a few kids in the front peeked back at me, nudging their parents to let them know I was there. We had come in a little late so I wouldn’t need to speak to anyone.