That Thursday

"Do you know what I have done to you?" he asked that night.
Twenty-four damp feet shifted. That's a rhetorical question, right?
No matter, he didn't even pause for effect.

"Do we know what you have done for us?" Sure, Teacher. No problem, Lord.

Wait.

What was the question?

What have you done to us?
     Why did you take off your outer robe?
What have you done to me?
     Not just my feet but my hands and my head, and my elbows, my knees, my eyes, ears, lips...

"Do you know what I have done to you?"

Sometimes. Sometimes I know.
Sometimes I know,
     the way I remember a dream for all of thirty seconds when I wake up;
     the way the lyrics to that song are almost on the tip of my tongue;
     the way my child looks into my eyes and sees things I didn't even know were there;
     the way all I ever hoped and longed for is suddenly mine, having been there all along.

I know now, in this moment. But I am prone to forgetfullness, and to distrust what I know.
I need you to remind me. Command me. Send me back to the basin and the towel.

Getting ready for Lent

It's Shrove Tuesday. From my office I can hear the mardi gras music playing in the social hall and the hilarious bits of giggling and laughter, as adults who haven't hula-hooped in years get a few practice rounds in before tonight's contest. There will be pancakes and syrup, sausages and OJ, the hula-hoops, limbo, cake walk, jokes and silly masks. And a pie-in-the-face fundraiser for the youth traveling to the National Youth Gathering this summer. (I am VERY glad the pies will be in the kids' faces, not mine - I'm thinking my contacts would react badly to an influx of Reddi-Whip).

I'm looking forward to the fun, but also keenly aware that the party is not the reason for the party. At least not this one.

This party is about being ready for tomorrow. This party is preparation for the fast of Lent. This party has a hidden agenda and ulterior motive. I hope we can remember. I hope people will return tomorrow night, for the ashes and the reminder of their ultimate limits: Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return. I hope we can live into Lent without getting morbid.

A post on Luther Seminary's Working Preacher website has helped my thinking in getting ready for the season. Hope you like it, too.