Every year, during the Pancake Supper, we take the children outside to burn the palms into ashes for Ash Wednesday. In the darkness, the fire catches and flares. Little faces are lit up by the orange glow of the flames; they cough as the acrid black smoke rises. Clutched in their hands are the palms saved from last year. Dry, crispy, coiled into weird snake like shapes. As the flames die away, the embers glow in the bottom of the can, and the children see how church traditions fold year over year. These, they understand, are the ashes that will be smudged on their velvety smooth foreheads; mortality the last thing on anyone’s mind, but a stark reminder that all life is precious and holy. “From the dust you were created, and to dust you shall return.”
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