it was two days before Ash Wednesday,
on one of those windy, harshly cold days. She needed directions, at first. Then she moved me over, out of the walkway, and said she actually needed more than that. All I could offer was a ride, and she graciously accepted. It was in the elevator where we exchanged names, and I opened my heart. She spoke of generosity, of us belonging to each other, and I opened my heart some more.
Weaving through downtown, I told her that I really wanted to be sure she had food that night. She waived my request and said she'd be fine, not to worry. Her life preached, in a way. She asked permission to smoke in my car, and I said sure.
She told me a bit of her story, asking me if I had kids, that all hers were grown and it was only her now. Her finding her own way. I told her no, but I was almost a year into marriage, to which she chuckled and said, "Well, them kids are comin'!" quickly following the prophesy with advice about keeping my legs closer together. Then I laughed -
hard.
We were fast friends.
When I dropped her off at the Salvation Army, we kissed the other's cheek like family. I wanted her to come over, but she had other plans.
I could smell her long after she left : perfume and ashes.
I felt like one of those ignorant hosts, despite being told to
be ready with a meal or a bed, for some have extended hospitality to angels without even knowing it.
As I drove home, I thought about how much my life would change if I understood helping and kindness as an interaction with heaven itself.
Something my new friend said to me in my car stuck like superglue -- the kind that burns a little when it interacts with your soft skin. She said that I was good because I followed the rules & my parents must be so proud of me.
And my heart broke open wide.
She, like so many I have known,
like myself,
believes one of the worst lies of them all ... our worth of love, grace, and acceptance depends on how well we can follow a set of rules.
Yeah, these are my ashes, too.
Her mama always said that you get back more than you give. That's what Jesus said, too.
And all of this talk reminded me of what I had experienced a couple weeks before, sitting with a group of women exploring our ashes, still searching for our beauty.
We read this together:
as for those who grieve:
God has sent me to give them a beautiful crown
in
exchange for ashes
to anoint them with gladness instead of sorrow
to wrap them in victory, joy, and praise
instead of depression
and sadness.
People will call them magnificent
like great towering trees
... and they will rebuild this place from its ruins.
Here,
in the exchange,
it's hazy.
It makes eyes pour and voices shake.
The rebuilding is happening.
And it hurts.
But we're doing it together.
We're rebuilding ourselves from the destruction of our own beliefs,
all of us smelling of perfume and ashes,
together.
