
The below guest post is an excerpt taken from Not All Who Wander (Spiritually) Are Lost ©2020 Church Publishing Incorporated, New York, NY 10016 I pull into the church parking lot about ten minutes early, and it occurs to me that if I go in now I might have to mingle with strangers. I decide to wait. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another car pull up a few spaces down. A man hurriedly gets out, robe in hand, throwing a white collar around his neck. Approximately six minutes before the Ash Wednesday service will start, the priest arrives. I open my car door, and he gestures in my general direction, smiling ever so slightly. The first thing a visitor notices in a Catholic church is its beauty. This particular church is only a few years old, so its stained-glass windows still sparkle like new, showing no sign of fading from the sun. The exposed wooden beams on the ceiling speak to the rustic northern town where the parish is in ministry. Stepping into the nave, I dip my finger in the holy water because I can never resist it. Every time I reach for that water, I envision a siren going off at my touch: “Protestant alert!” Nevertheless, I keep going; the water holds such a symbolic significance in the Bible, and I love feeling the moistness on my fingers, signaling to my heart that its time for worship. Quickly, I cross myself. Still no siren. Every time it’s worth the risk. I take an aisle seat on the last row. There are about thirty faithful ones at the service. The beautiful older lady wearing a black mantilla; the gentleman who genuflects before accepting the communion elements. Not many children. Then I see Jeanne, a dear friend I know from the Reformed church I attend in the next town over. What a wonderful feeling to find a familiar face in the crowd. Suddenly, I hear a voice behind me: “Will you hold this for me just a second, please?” I turn to see the man I encountered in the parking lot. The priest. He needs to put on his wireless mic, so he hands me the small bowl filled with ashes. I am holding last year’s Palm Sunday branches, now burned up and ground into sacred bits. The ashes rest in my hands. I think to…
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