As Ash Wednesday approached, Max was more excited for it than our family’s Mardi Gras celebration. It could be because I told him the priest was going to, “make a messy on his head.”
I am surprising myself by taking the kids to mass. I feel the impulse so I’m following it, but I’m confused. Last year I decided not to raise our kids Catholic. I am deeply troubled by the sex abuse scandals and the lack of women’s rights in the church. I just can’t belong to religion that I know will never fully recognize my own divine value in my lifetime. I don’t expect the church to keep up with the ebbs of modern culture, but I suspect their rigidity towards equality stems from a need to hold onto power, rather than deep spiritual truth.
Still, it is the birthplace of my spiritual life, so I left with respect and kept a window open. I can’t bare the thought of never singing the beautiful hymns that made me feel God as a child. I also don’t want to isolate myself from my culture. I am from a strong Irish-Catholic family and I don’t want to reject my heritage. Both of my sons were baptized because I wanted that door open for them. I was brought to tears and ridiculous smiles during both sacraments, so I know I still feel a pull, a connection.
Perhaps Catholicism is not just the source of my spirituality, but the fountain as well. Every so often I am parched with thirst, and I must drink from its well-spring.
For the past week instead of bowing my head before a meal and saying, “Itadakimasu,” a Japanese tradition meaning, “I humbly accept this food,” I have found my right hand marking the sign of the cross and speaking the words of my youth, “Bless this, Oh Lord….”
I do not know what this means. My spiritual journey has been long and beautiful, full of twists, turns, dark valleys and sublime summits. I know my spirit well enough to trust it and follow. Who was it that said, “Every journey begins to a destination unknown”?
When I told Max about Ash Wednesday, we were outside playing with water toys. He invented a game where he would fill a bucket of water and rush over to dump it on my feet. Gloriously refreshing on a hot afternoon, I laughed every time. Jack joined in the fun and for ten minutes they washed my feet. Delightful.
My feet were washed one other time in my life. By Monsignor Pearson on Holy Thursday. Every year our church ritually recreates the Last Supper. Twelve parishioners are chosen to sit and have the priest slowly and methodically wash their feet just as Jesus had done. It was beautiful, but also uncomfortable, having priest act as a servant. As my feet were gently dried with a towel I felt the reverence of the moment and the lesson too. We are all sacred: no one above anyone else.
Max and Jack splashing my feet with water was divine. I drank it up, bottoms up.
And yet, I am still thirsty….
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