Ashes to Ashes

Ash Wednesday has not really been a part of the life of the congregation that I serve.  I suppose it's because we still have a little bit of a hangover from the reformation (500 year hangovers... Phew), or maybe it's just because we never did it that way before.  But we had one last night, and there were 11 of us, including my two kids who were really just there because they had to be.
As I approach the text for this Sunday, about Jesus' temptation in the wilderness, I am tempted in my own way to feel down about an Ash Wednesday service with only 11 people, but something keeps gnawing at me whenever I start to feel the pity party coming on.  That gnawing is the sense, scratch that, the conviction that I have bought into the cultural attitude of more is better a little too much.
Ash Wednesday is, after all, a day that reminds us of our mortality, and sets our feet on a difficult path.  Jesus knew the journey was going to test the 12 men that he had called to be his disciples, and he kept watching as they stumbled and missed the point all along the way.  He knew that they had certain expectations of him; expectations that he was not going to fulfill, at least not their way.
So here I am on Thursday, reflecting with thanksgiving for the 10 people that did show up, knowing that they are enough.  This is what I will remember about my first Ash Wednesday service at GSPC:
I didn't ask an Elder of the church to give me the ashes.  I could have, I probably should have, but I didn't.
I asked my eight-year-old daughter to do it, with no preparation, no warning, after I drew the sign of the cross on her head, the head that I baptized, the head that I have dragged around to more churchy stuff than is really fair, I knelt down and asked her to make the cross on my forehead.
I could tell right away that it was the right thing to do, she is a sensitive soul and she gets things like this.  She was the one who was actually excited about getting ashes before the service, she is the one who loves to always touch and do things herself.  She reverently and conscientiously dipped her finger in the ashes and oil and drew a perfect cross.
It wasn't something I planned, it was a moment, a flash of inspiration, and for me it was sacred.
My kids have taught me a lot about mortality.  I don't think I ever realized how truly precious life is until they were born.  I had theological knowledge and philosophical perspective, but I don't think I truly learned to value my numbered days until I held those little people, who were so intimately connected to me, but who will, by the grace of God, go on after I am gone.
I don't know if I would have had that moment in a bigger service, where I had a line of 20 or more people waiting for the imposition.  I'm afraid that I would have been too decent and in order and done things the normal way, with a duly ordained Elder, instead of my flesh and blood.
I don't know if she will remember that simple act more than a few days, but I will remember it forever.
Do I wish more people had been there? Sure.
Do I hope that more people will find the time and space to step out of their ordinary routines and remember that they are dust?  You bet.
Does it detract from the holiness of last night?  Not in the least.