finitude: 40 words in 40 days

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the lenten season.

Before I meet a friend at the Eucharist Service, I run to the mall for a few items. Nobody is working the Origins make-up counter. Across the aisle a man in a tailored black suit with shocking white hair and spectacular white teeth bids me hello. He attempts to help me but his expertise is Dior. I'm a bit below Dior. I say, "I've got more shopping to do. I'll come back. Maybe someone will be here by then."

"My name is Elliott," he says winning me over with his smile.

As I re-enter Dillard's like a beast of burden, Elliott spies me and together we work down the list. Last item: eyeliner. Elliott upsells me to Dior. He says, "You need a deep brown. I've got the perfect shade that is right in between a black and a brown. Come on over, I'll show you."

We stand at the Dior counter while he paints my eyelids. A forty-pound bag in my left hand, I hold my breath while he creates. Applying make-up requires close proximity. "Take a look. Is it black? Is it brown?" I gulp in fresh oxygen. I almost black out before I see the enchanting affects of the eyeliner.

I am reminded of my finitude.

I slip into the pew beside my friend. A moral dilemma ensues as I determine whether to dip the wafer or drink the cup. I've had a sore throat. I'm coughing a bit. If I cough and then drink, who will notice? Will the wine kill my germs? Is God's Spirit powerful enough to overcome a virus? I dip.

The priest looks me in the eye while rubbing his thumb in a carafe of ash. He says, "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. Repent and believe the gospel." He marks my forehead with a cross of ash, and I am marked for Christ. I walk among people with black-dusted foreheads.

Later I look in the mirror and notice the ash has crept into the wrinkles on my forehead in an unsightly river of black. The cross is somehow blurred.

Tonight I tuck my children in bed and look in the mirror to wash my face. The cross of ash is nothing but a smudge, and the eyeliner leaves smudges under my eyes. I recall the day - another day of unfolding grace.

I am reminded of my finitude.