The First Ashes: A Story of Lent

The First Ashes: A Story of Lent

By a.d. elliott | Take the Back Roads - Art and Other Odd Adventures

Dear Henry,

Has anyone ever asked you, “When did you hear the call?”

I’ve been thinking about that question a lot lately. My own answer constantly circles back to Ash Wednesday, the day I first seriously approached the Big G, and the day that changed everything.

When people ask how I came to faith, I usually point them toward my essays “Taking the Back Road to Rome” and “Finding God in Gomorrah.” They explain how I discovered Catholicism. But what made me actually walk through the door that first time? That’s a more complicated story to tell,  a little strange, and a little sad.

It begins, oddly enough, on my parents’ wedding day. They were raised in a restoration branch of Christianity. They participated in a ceremony that, according to their belief, eternally bound their marriage and the souls of their future children together.

When their marriage ended, both abandoned that faith, convinced that their separation freed them from the spiritual bond. Yet, for reasons I still don’t understand, they held fast to the idea that they retained an eternal claim on their children.

As they fell further into addiction, that belief began to feel like a curse. After a particularly painful encounter, I remember praying, begging that neither of them would have any claim on my soul. I told God I would go anywhere, do anything, if it meant escaping that fate.

And God answered.

The air seemed to shift, the pressure in the room changed, and I knew. It was terrifying and sacred all at once, the unmistakable sense of being heard.

For years, I’d felt drawn to Catholic churches, their stillness, their beauty,  but I never felt entitled to enter. After that prayer, the pull became constant. Every holy season and feast day whispered, Come and see.

I decided that Ash Wednesday seemed fitting. After all, the Lenten season is about penance, reflection, and rebirth —precisely the things I needed. But when the day came, I lost my nerve. “It’s ridiculous,” I told myself. “Everyone will think I’m crazy.”

Then, the next morning:

“GET UP! YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE!”

The words rang in my head so persistently that I couldn’t ignore them. I argued (for far too long) and finally gave in, stumbling out the door and into the nearest Catholic church, rumpled, nervous, and completely unprepared.

And the moment I walked through that door, I knew: this was home.

The disciplines of Catholicism came easily to me, probably because they echoed the Stoic and Buddhist philosophies I’d practiced to survive my accident. But I wasn’t ready for Lent.

After Mass, the priest handed me one of the little black devotional books. I went home, grilled a hot dog, sat down, and opened it,  only to realize (mid-bite) that I was supposed to be fasting.

Oops.

But I didn’t stop. And I’ve been “practicing” ever since.

That first Ash Wednesday didn’t make me perfect. It simply made me present. And that, I’ve learned, is where faith really begins.

xoxo,
a.d. elliott

P.S. Before you ask, yes, I have forgiven my parents. You can read my thoughts about forgiveness here: "What Kind of Fudge is Forgiveness Anyway."

You can also read the beginning of my journey to Catholicism in the posts "Taking the Back Road to Rome" and "Finding God in Gomorrah."

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About the Author
a.d. elliott is a wanderer, photographer, and storyteller traveling through life

She shares her journeys at Take the Back Roads, explores new reads at Rite of Fancy, and highlights U.S. military biographies at Everyday Patriot.

You can also browse her online photography gallery at shop.takethebackroads.com.

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