March 13th Newsletter
by Brett Gibson
Our little church is a Baptist one,
which means there is no Priest
but a room of “priests one to another.”
Every year we come into our sanctuary
--with the Central Texas wind and cold of late winter--
and sit with last year’s palms burned to ash.
We take turns pressing the ash
into one another’s foreheads
in the shape of a cross
--sign of our shame, sign of our hope.
The man who sings bass with me in our choir
reminds my daughter of her humble provenance
--“Remember that you are dust”
and she in turn reminds her little sister of her mortality
--“to dust you shall return.”
We are each marked as we exit
with ash on our fingers.