The little chapel.
I grew up in a religious household with one foot in each of my parents’ denominations. My mother grew up Catholic, attended Catholic school her entire life and even went to a Catholic college. I don’t think devout is an adequate description for her upbringing. My father on the other hand was raised Baptist, and always looked to attend a free-spirited, diverse Baptist church. This meant that I was christened Catholic, but baptized in a Baptist church and floated between attending the two my whole life. While they both have their attributes, I have mostly ended up attending a Baptist church as an adult. There are times however, when I miss the certainty, quietness and stoicism offered from a Catholic church. Maybe it’s because they tend to be in older, massive buildings steeped in history which provokes awe, but genuflecting in a Catholic church immediately makes me feel like I am in a most holy place and realigns my spirit.
Earlier this year, I felt like my life was going down the road of chaos on what happened to be Ash Wednesday. So during my lunch break I ran down the street to the local Catholic Church for Ash Wednesday service to get a spiritual tune-up. While there, I got everything I bargained for and walked out feeling invigorated with an ash cross on my forehead to boot.
I understand that not everyone knows about Catholic traditions/rituals in the South as Catholic churches aren’t as prevalent as they are in the North, so I was unnerved by the stares that I got because of the ash cross on my forehead on my walk back to work and into the building. I brushed off the looks from people who work in the building who I have seen before but don’t really know and focused on the fact that my sprit had been renewed. It was not until I got back to my office and stopped by the restroom that I discovered that what I thought was the usual wisp of ashes smeared across my head turned out to be the biggest, blackest cross that has ever been made. It looked like God himself had drawn a cross from the top of my forehead to the bridge of my nose with black magic marker. In that bathroom, I must admit that I had a crisis of faith. I debated whether I should wash the cross off of my face and keep my Ash Wednesday service attendance to myself or just proudly wear it as a mark of my dedication to God. Eventually, my Catholic guilt won out and I emerged with the cross from a medieval crucifixion still affixed to my head. I managed to stay in my office the rest of the day, so the stares died down but I had to make a stop at the grocery store on my way home to buy my requisite organic groceries (see here) and prepared myself for more peering. I soldiered through my shopping, scurrying down the lanes and picking up things as fast as I could, telling myself that at least I didn’t rinse it off and I must be making God proud by not being ashamed (I was hoping embarrassment wasn’t frowned upon by God though). I almost explained to the checkout girl the reason for the cross when she refused to look at me during check-out, but I didn’t want to come across as doing any religious grandstanding. And so, I scuttled my cart to my car, threw in my groceries and pulled out of my parking space happy that I was done with the day.
Once I began driving in the parking lot, a friend from high school and her seven-year old and five year-old daughters walked in front of my car. Without a thought I rolled down my window and yelled “Hello!” I will never forget the faces of those girls. Usually the girls are so happy to say “hi” when I run into them and tell me about how school is going, but when they saw me that day, or really the gigantic cross on my head, they froze in terror. When my friend also looked at me slightly scared and quizzically like I had lost my mind, I figured it was time to cut the pleasantries, roll up the window and just take the cross to the house. When I finally got to my mom’s house to check-in with her, I was frazzled but happy to be around another Catholic who would understand my day. That was until my so very Catholic mother told me that with St. Peter’s cross hanging on my head and wearing a black dress, I looked like I participated in an exorcism. Then she asked me why I just didn’t wash it off. And that’s how a part-time Catholic Baptist does Ash Wednesday.