7

Bearing the Cross

ASH WEDNESDAY

She had planned to go to her own church for the Ash Wednesday worship service. But when Wren took the initiative and invited Kit to join her at Wayfarer for an evening service, she gratefully accepted. Any move toward participating in community life needed to be affirmed.

In a darkened sanctuary that smelled faintly of candle wax, Hannah invited the congregation into a season of reflection, self-examination, and repentance—a season to take seriously the call to journey with Jesus to the cross. “We’re called to remember Jesus’ own words, ‘Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves, take up their cross, and follow me.’” And that, Hannah said, was a far more radical call than giving up chocolate or caffeine for forty days. “It’s a call to die to ourselves so we can live more fully in Christ. And that dying can take on many different forms.”

The living, too, Kit thought as she watched shadows flicker on the walls.

At the designated time, they went forward to receive the mark of the ashes as a symbol of embracing Christ’s call. From her place beside Wren, Kit watched Hannah gently brush aside Wren’s hair from her forehead, the dark strands no longer oily and flat—a silent testimony to her emerging hope and renewal.

With her thumb covered in black ash, Hannah made a downward stroke. “Wren, count yourself dead to sin”—she dipped her thumb into the bowl of ashes again before making the horizontal cross—“and alive in Christ.” Her hand still resting on Wren’s forehead, she whispered, “The Lord bless you and keep you.”

Kit brushed her own hair back and leaned forward to receive. “Katherine.” Hannah dipped her thumb into the bowl, ashes sprinkling onto the ground. “Count yourself dead to sin”—the tip of her nail scratched the vertical line—“and alive in Christ.” It wasn’t merely a horizontal stroke. Hannah’s thumb moved across and upward, as if marking the victory even there. “The Lord make his face to shine upon you and give you peace,” Hannah said.

Wren turned, her gaze landing on Kit’s forehead as if searching for a mirror to reflect the image marked on her own. As they returned to their seats, Kit glanced around the sanctuary at people bearing the cross, saints and sinners, all of them, each unique in their struggles and joys, yet united by a common need, longing, and hope. Together in the journey to death. And to life.

Wren fell asleep before changing her clothes or washing her face. Kit, who had for the past several months been in the habit of checking on her before heading to bed herself, covered her with an afghan. She woke briefly, mumbled her thanks, and went back to sleep.

Kit was about to turn off the nightstand lamp when the sight of Wren’s head on her pillow and the cross on her skin brought to mind a detail she’d forgotten. Steadying herself against the desk, she inhaled slowly, matching her breath with prayer.

In her years as a chaplain she had marked those lines on many foreheads of the sick and dying. She had marked the cross to remind them they belonged to Christ, in life and in death. She had marked the cross to declare their trust and hope.

She looked again at Wren, her body still, the blanket beneath her chin.

Micah had lain in much the same way the morning she found him, his body still, his blanket pulled to his chin. She had tried to rouse him. She had tried in vain to find his breath. But there was no life.

And why did she do what she did next? Was it habit or hope when she brushed aside the hair from his forehead and made the sign of the cross on his cold skin? What did she hope the Lord would do? Raise him from the dead? Or reassure her that in life and in death, her son belonged to him?

FEBRUARY 15

My dear Wren,

You came down to breakfast this morning, the cross still visible on your forehead. It was that cross that spoke to me last night, reminding me of something I hadn’t thought about in years. Painful as it was, remembering, it was another opportunity for me to receive Jesus’ comfort and love.

I was the one who found Micah after he died. I remember how peaceful he looked, as if he had only just fallen asleep. In my work, first as a hospice chaplain and later as a chaplain at St. Luke’s, I saw many hard, labored, and “ugly” deaths. Micah’s was not that. Robert wrote in his obituary that he died in his sleep. It wasn’t the whole truth—Robert probably wanted to do what he could to protect Micah and our family from widespread gossip and shame—but it was true that he died while he was asleep. I’m grateful he did not suffer terror and trauma in dying. A small consolation in the midst of the horror.

I don’t remember much about that morning. At some point, I must have shouted for Robert to come. I don’t remember Micah being carried from the house. I don’t remember who gathered to mourn with us that day. But I remember leaning forward to touch my son’s cheek as he lay in his bed. I remember brushing the hair from his forehead as I had done many times. And last night I remembered how I marked on his forehead the sign of the cross. I am grateful for the reminder.

The excavation of a single memory often brings others to the surface. As I think of Hannah’s words about the call to take up our own cross and follow Christ, I remember the ones who helped me bear the cross of sorrow and suffering by bearing the cross of self-sacrifice and love. I’ve told you about the chaplain who cared for me in the psychiatric hospital, how he companioned me from death to life. Today I remember colleagues who laid down their lives for me by giving me their vacation days so I could not only take the time I needed in the hospital, but also take the time I needed to recover afterward. Such an extraordinary gift of love.

Even then—even after I had gratefully received their gifts and taken months to rest—it was clear I could not return to my hospice work. I could not minister to the dying in their homes. It was not safe for me. I could not minister in an ongoing way to their families. It wasn’t safe for me, and it wasn’t good pastoral care for them. It was a couple of years before I was well enough to return to chaplaincy work. And even then, I had to be continually mindful of the triggers that could spiral me into depression again. But I had the gift of skilled and compassionate colleagues alongside to hold me accountable and pray for my wholeness as I said yes to the call I believed God had given me. They bore the cross with me.

I think of Simon of Cyrene, forced by a Roman soldier to bear Christ’s cross. I wonder if part of him resisted, even while having to obey. I wonder if he understood the gift he was giving Jesus by removing the physical burden from his bruised and bloodied back. I wonder if he understood afterward what an honor and privilege had been given to him, to literally carry the cross of Christ. For Christ.

Bearing the cross is an honor and privilege, as costly as it is. I’m glad Hannah reminded us about that as we prepared to receive the symbol of our faith and our call.

I think, too, of the words my pastor speaks when he places the ashes on our foreheads: “Remember that you are dust. And to dust you shall return.”

One year a friend complained to me that the words were morbid and depressing. I guess they could be. But to me they are a necessary counterbalance in our life of discipleship. We are human. We are finite. We are limited. We are dust. Beloved dust that will be given resurrection bodies, yes. But still, dust. Those words are a reminder of our mortality. This life is temporary. And because it is short and fleeting, that makes the call to take up the cross and follow Jesus even more urgent. But we follow in our weakness and our frailty, in our stumbling and our failures. We follow in grace and by the power of the Spirit.

For my Micah and your Casey, the end of temporary came far too soon. But by faith in God’s goodness and mercy, we trust they were marked with a cross that will not fade or wash away. And perhaps I will continue to mark the sign on my forehead. And remember.

With you,

Kit