I started attending Ash Wednesday services at The Cathedral Church of the Advent ten or twelve years ago. When we started our little school 7 years ago, we would gather all the children and take them to this very textured service. Not only do the participants walk up to the front for the imposition of ashes, we also would walk back up to the priest for communion. Steve joined us soon and of all the liturgical calendar services, this one seemed to be our signature one.
It was such a relief to see that the church had a day that recognized our frailties and failures and answered with words for a fitting response and then the eucharist. We called our love a 'lenten love.'
Last year this time we did not know that Steve had cancer yet. But Ash Wednesday
was on March 9 last year, just one week after we found out that steve
was sick. Steve and I drove to our church for the imposition of
ashes, but b/c he was so weak we ended up not being able to attend the
services and went home instead. I remember this day very vividly. That afternoon, in the midst of nausea and the feeling that he could not breathe (we were just finding out about the lung fluid then), Steve and I drove to the bank to attach my name to all his financial records and to tend to all the final signing of papers and wills and documents.
Today marks 9 months since Steve's death. But i have realized that the actual moment of Steve's last breath was not the day of the most impact for me. Death came to me on an earlier Wednesday afternoon, when I joined him in the doctor's office and he looked at me and voiced, falteringly, "They think i have cancer." I have time now to imagine Steve in the minutes before when he thought of what words he would choose to tell me. I remember that i did not say a single word in that doctor's office. I remember holding Steve's gaze. I remember the doctor hugging me and I knew that hug meant that this was as bad and devastating as we suspected. I remember that I got lipstick on the doctors's shirt when he hugged me and he said something light to reassure me that it was ok. I remember holding Steve's hand as we walked through St. Vincents for blood work and I remember the numbness and heat and wet face.
Emptied. in a moment.
Lenten emptiness.