Pop 89: Ashes & Snow — Part 2

By Madonna Hamel

Lent is a time for fasting, praying and the giving of alms. Many people, when they think of fasting, see it as a way to give up the foods they love in the portions they prefer, with perhaps a sneaking hope they will lose weight, if not the desire to “pig out,” in the process.

For Catholics, the night before Ash Wednesday is often seen as that last chance to fill up before the long 40 days of abstinence. Mardi Gras, after all, is French for Fat Tuesday. As kids we called it Pancake Tuesday, when we stuffed ourselves with pancakes for supper.

It’s also known as Shrove Tuesday. The word “shrove” is derived from Shrovetide, referring to the three days before Lent when early Christians made confessions and were forgiven for their trespasses. So, to be shriven is to be forgiven. Sometimes we say we’ve been given “short shrift” when someone gives us, or our words, very little consideration. This expression, from the late 1500s, refers to the brief time given a condemned criminal to confess before execution.

“My reverence was not for the impermanent ashes, per se, but for the memory of all she’d ever given me.”

But Lent isn’t just about what I eat, it’s about everything I consume — and how I consume it. That includes what I look at, what I read, the opinions and evidence I hoard, the many ways I build my case in my brain against others and the world. So, if we really want to “fast,” we abstain. We “do without.” One year a friend told me she was “fasting from gossip.” It never occurred to me you could do it that way.

The year I gave up coffee for Lent, the results of my abstinence only made themselves known when I renewed my caffeine habit on Easter morning. After mass, my sister and I went for lattes at our favourite bakery. At that first sip I began talking a mile a minute.

“Wow!” My sister laughed. “It’s like you’re on drugs!”

“I am!” I replied.

Only I had never realized, until that moment, that my usual pre-Lenten consumption of espresso was doing this to me on a daily basis. Gee, might coffee have something to do with my argumentativeness, snap judgements and sudden bouts of giddiness mistaken for genuine happiness?

I thought I was giving up a luxury, but what I was giving up on was fuel for my thousands of agitations with life and others.

This year, Pope Leo defined Lent as a time in which we are invited to place Mystery at the centre of our lives, in order to “keep our hearts from being consumed by the anxieties and distractions of daily life.”

One way of doing that is to do as my friend did — refrain from hasty conclusions, nasty wisecracks and backbiting.

Leo invited us to a very practical and frequently unappreciated form of abstinence: refraining from words that offend and hurt.

“Let us begin by disarming our language, avoiding harsh words and rash judgement, refraining from slander and speaking ill of those who are not present and cannot defend themselves. Instead, let us strive to measure our words and cultivate kindness and respect in our families, among our friends, at work, on social media, in political debates, in the media…”

Instead, he invited us to be challenged by reality, recognizing what truly guides our desires, suggesting we “consider the importance of listening. The willingness to listen is the first way we demonstrate our desire to enter into relationship with someone.”

At one point, while speaking with educators, he said: “Education does not advance through controversy, but through listening. Relationships come before opinions, and people come before programmes. Do not waste time and opportunities.”

Oh boy, I thought. You’re not giving me any wiggle room at all!

As we move into March I am reminded not only of the anniversary of my brother’s stroke, but the anniversary of my mother’s death. I suppose this enforced reminder of such a monumental loss could be looked upon as an opportunity to bring to mind my attachments and hungers.

I like how Leo gently suggests we allow ourselves to be challenged by what truly guides our desires. He even suggests that we can guide those desires toward greater things through “deep listening” and yes, “intentional fasting, and concrete acts of charity,” bringing us back, once again, to the Lenten practice.

As giant snowflakes silently drift to the ground, I am challenged by my own reflections on the reality of death.

The year after Mom died, I was on my way to join my boyfriend on a blues tour through the States. At the Michigan border I was told to pull over into the parking lot. I groaned inwardly — they always grilled me about my work as a reporter. And I always tried to be polite and honest: No, I don’t earn money in the States. Yes, my boyfriend is American. No, I don’t plan to stay.

Unfortunately, something about me irritated the guard and he decided to go through all my things, including the small, hand-painted box that held the urn with my mom’s ashes.

When I was allowed to return to my car, there were bits of bone and ash on my car seat and the box containing the urn was on the floor. I might as well have been strip-searched. It took everything not to march back to the building and wave Mom under his nose.

“I travel everywhere with her!” I wanted to say. “And she was very pro-America, I’ll have you know! She donated to PBS! For crying out loud!”

Instead, I carefully scraped the ashes into my hand, said a prayer and then, without thinking, wiped my hands on my jeans. The spontaneous gesture seemed both entirely human and a touch sacrilegious. And yet, I knew she knew — and God, too — that my reverence was not for the impermanent ashes, per se, but for the memory of all she’d ever given me.