Channeling Fulton J. Sheen

As a child, I hated Ash Wednesday, most especially all the mummery of it. The burning of the palm from Palm Sunday creates the ashes the priest places on your forehead in the sign of the cross with his thumb and forefinger, 'remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shall return.'
Thanks, Father. You have a nice day now, too.

As I grew into an adult (got older; maturation was never really a result) it was interesting to see who among us were Catholic based on the number of foreheads with ashes at work and beyond. All I can ever think of when marveling at those foreheads is Dr. Seuss and his Sneetches.

What I really remember is Gary J from beyond where we lived on Bloomfield Avenue, down Appleman near Castleton in Franklin Township, New Jersey. We were all kids playing ball out in the street, and he was (I think) just about the only kid with a clean forehead. I knew, instinctively, this meant he wasn't a Catholic.

In street baseball, you only need two outfielders (unless we ever got to play on the Turnpike at Exit Ten, where it's six lanes wide; that would be sweet!). Standing out there alongside me, he had (too many) questions about those ashes and our foreheads, and I certainly didn't have answers; what was I, the Pope?

Gary didn't understand the significance, the timing, or the whole idea behind Lent and its importance to the kids he hung out with after school. No more than ten myself, I reassured him as best I could and told him to not worry about any of it because it wasn't all that important.

What I didn't tell him was that since he wasn't a Catholic, he was going to Hell. Not that I'd want to see that shocked and scared look on his face again, but I wish I knew now how to find the certainty and reassurance I felt then. It doesn't need to last forever, just 40 days.
-bill kenny