In March 2011, Worcester Fellowship was discussing Ash Wednesday. Although I’d gone to an Episcopal Seminary, this was not a tradition I’d practiced in churches I grew up in, or in any church I served.
But in this highly Catholic town, people, including people at Worcester Fellowship, felt that ashes are a necessary thing. I wasn’t excited by the idea, but agreed it was wise to offer an Ash Wednesday service on Worcester Common. “Ashes to Go” was just becoming popular, and I figured I could offer ashes for a while on the common after the service. I was mostly glad that no one thought we should greet the commuter rail at 6:30 am. 10 am is a more dignified time, don’t you think? Tuesday afternoon, while others were enjoying pancakes, sausages and other shrove Tuesday events, I finally got around to figuring out how to get ashes for the next day’s service. Which is why I was standing at my backyard grill in a foot of snow, trying to burn palms. If you are ever threatened by forest fire, be assured, you can use Palms to protect you from the oncoming heat. They do not burn. Obviously that is not completely true, you've seen the burnt palms at Ash Wednesday services for years. But it is true that a lit Palm will not stay lit. The ashes only burn if there is a heat source aimed directly at them. After an hour of frustration and very wet shoes I brought in the scrapings of ashes and a lot of chunks of partially burnt leaves. “Maybe I can fill it out with burnt paper.” It was cold outside, and getting dark, so I lined a frying pan with aluminum foil and filled it with crumpled newspaper. I turned on the stove fan and lit a match. For those of you who don't already know this, newspaper DOES burn easily. With huge flames. Up into the microwave above. Up into the vent. Moving quickly, I found a lid, plopped it onto the pan, and went to take the battery out of the now blaring smoke detector. I wondered how long before the sprinkler system went off. Once the smoke cleared I found that I did indeed have ashes, which I ground together with the palms. I then burned it again to hide the few pieces of text that still showed, and the hunks of palm fronts. I put the two teaspoons of ashes in a plastic container. It was windy, cloudy, and cold, but not snowing. Cold enough that no one came to the service. Well, Terence came early, but left when I arrived, and Rose chatted a bit, but decided to leave as soon as I started the service. “Wait, I have to give you ashes!” Surely that’s why she was there, right? I opened my little container, only to have the ashes fly into the wind, into my eyes, and Roses, and onto the ground. Eyes watering I finally got a bit onto my finger, and from there to Roses forehead. "Thanks!" She said cheerily, and then she was gone. “Okay” I said to myself, tying my hat more securely under my chin, “now what?” At the bus station people moved nervously away when I offered ashes. At the street corner, people turned away. But finally I ran into Jacque who was thrilled to see me. He had the key to his new apartment and wanted to tell me all about it. “Do you want ashes?” I asked. “How about a coffee?” “It’s really cold,” I replied, “maybe we can get a donut, too.” And so I thought about how we are created from dust, and to dust, we return, over coffee and conversation at Dunkin’ Donuts.
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Where I'm from --
the Adirondacks wet dirt carrying water to our site figuring out how to keep the canopy standing in the rain Where I'm from -- a sewing machine in the basement piles of scraps, patterns, thread the engineering of how things are put together a needle through my finger cannot stop me Where I'm from -- the church parents disagreeing with the pastor and each other in the car on the way home my bicycle flying downhill at youth group retreats Where I'm from -- the ski slope the Appalachian trail the girl scouts canoeing down falls to avoid a portage then carrying back up to do it again, for fun Where I'm from -- cousins and aunts and uncles holidays Grandma Ruth who straightened doilies and the other Grandma Ruth who didn't wash the outside of pans Where I'm from -- chemistry class where I admitted I make things up and Mrs. Lewis said "your instincts are good" all the cool kids called to get help with homework. Where I'm from -- a home a safe home a laughing home a place where lemonade and popcorn for dinner was funny, not sad. Thanks to George Ella Lyon who wrote the real poem "Where I'm From" and to Rev. Dr. Meg Hess who encouraged us to write our own at a recent clergy gathering. I failed. I'm not a failure, but I definitely failed. In 2017 I decided that I wanted to walk the Disney Half Marathon. I started a walking regime and soon was walking all over the place. My longest walks when I started were about half an hour, in May of 2019 I registered for my first 5k. I needed to be able to walk 13.1 miles by the first weekend in November. Disney requires a 16 minute mile to enter, but it was easy to simply lie about that on the registration form. I got so I could do a 5K in 50 minutes but I couldn't maintain the pace for a 10K. I walked longer and longer distances and set my goal clearly--I wanted to finish the race. People would laugh and say "well you don't want to be last" and I'd reply firmly, "nope, it's fine to be last, I just want to finish." Others said "you are an inspiration" and I'd say "I haven't actually done it yet." Race day I was off like I've never walked before. I hit a record for my 5k, and looked okay at 10k, and then I hit the wall. The balloon gals, they set the minimum pace, passed me and then I passed them. When they passed me again the bicyclists bringing up the rear checked in. "You need to speed up to stay in the race." "I can't go any faster." "Are you okay?" "Yes, I'm okay, I just can't move any faster." Just after the 15k mark I got on the bus and sobbed. I failed to finish the Disney Half Marathon. There is plenty of place for analysis and for figuring out if I can do it next time. People were comforting and helpful and encouraging, and I had a great time at Disney that afternoon (and until 1 in the morning!) My life was not ruined, or even slightly hurt by this experience. But that doesn't change the fact that I failed to hit my goal. And yet, almost everyone I meet tries to turn it around and say that I didn't fail. People tell me about how I succeeded at this similar thing or that, or that if the goal was different it could be reframed as a success. I walked more than 13 miles that day, all totaled. I walked 14 miles 2 weeks earlier. All that walking was good for me. Disney gives you the medal as you walk off the failure bus. Oh, and they don't call it a failure bus. What is it that makes it so hard to accept the idea that sometimes we fail? Why do we need to re-write a failed enterprise into a success story? What would it mean to accept that failure is always an option? In the church and in the world we are constantly encouraged to take risks, to try new things, to step out into new territory. At the same time all the stories we read and hear are about how successful the risk-taking has been. We imply that risk-taking leads to success. But if it is really a risk, then there is the possibility of failure. Right? Where is the risk if failure is not an option? Where are our stories of failure? Where do we grapple with how we feel in the failed moment, before the story is re-written into one of success? How are we teaching ourselves and those around us that failure is okay? After the Disney Half Marathon my sister pulled me aside privately. "I'm so proud of you. You tried something that had the potential of failure. I'm not sure we allow that very much, and you did it anyway." I still tear up with gratitude at her words. That was the compliment that mattered. I failed, and that is good. What have you failed at recently? How do you stumble through mistakes? I'd love to hear your stories of failure. |
My ThoughtsFor my organized thoughts, see my book Five Loaves, Two Fish, Twelve Volunteers: Developing Relational Food Ministries. In this spot are thoughts that appear for a moment--about food programs, mission, church, building community, writing, and whatever else pops into my head. History
January 2024
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