The right words are sometimes difficult to find.

Last night was my second time on the other end of Ash Wednesday. I stood at the front of the sanctuary in my robe (I was also wearing a tie, which is a bit unusual seeing as if I had a dollar for everyone who mentioned the fact that I was dressed up, I could have taken EA to a nice Valentine's Day dinner) and administered ashes. And I found myself struggling with what to say as I made the sign of the cross on each individual's forehead.

The fretting is on me. These women and men weren't coming to hear whatever I said. They were here for the ashes. But I still didn't want to be pithy. I didn't want to water down this holy moment that has meant a great deal to me. I still remember Lisa Allen speaking to me one Wednesday many years ago and how her words were like oxygen to my spirit. It's not that I wanted to be grandly eloquent, but I wanted to minister. I'm probably too lost in my own head sometimes.

The right words are sometimes difficult to find until you realize they are right there in front of you.

It's gray and gloomy outside today because of course it is. Throughout the day, many of us will slide into a church pew and hear some variation on these words:

"You are dust and to dust you shall return."

There is harshness there. It's a slap of reality to the face and its hand is cold and brittle. We don't like to think of not being here. Our entire frame of reference is being alive. We may understand that death creeps around some unknown corner, but we don't really like to dwell on it. Well, poets might. Yet on the whole, humanity does not like being reminded of its finite nature.

I have come to the not-so-enjoyable conclusion that I have gotten really good at shoving anger deep down into my system. I thought I was getting rid of it or letting it roll off my back. But anger doesn't work that way. You have to deal with it. But I didn't want to deal with it. I thought it was wrong to deal with it.

I'm not supposed to feel anger, right?

I love the Sermon on the Mount. God, I wish that I could live out that beautiful dream of three chapters more fully in my life. But I took the wrong message when Jesus said that if you are angry with someone then you are liable to judgment. In the framework of "all sins are the same" (which I now realize is a dubious framework), anger equals murder. I don't want kill people so if I feel anger, I must avoid it. Engaging with it would mean acknowledging it was real and that would get my hands dirty. My wires got crossed. I neglected the reality that Jesus got angry multiple times.

Christmas is not over. Yeah, the kids are back in school. The Pa-rum-pum-pum-pums are pa-rum-pum-pum-done. Santa has vacated the mall. And one of my sons and I came home yesterday to find our Christmas tree lying on the ground beneath our front porch as if it had been pushed to its death*. But Christmas is not over.

You might know this. There are no shortage of bloggers or that guys on Facebook who will remind you of not-yet-doneness of the holidays. After all, there are the Twelve Days of Christmas and, as of this writing, we're at ten lords a-leapin' in that unhinged bout of gift-giving. More importantly, the church still observes Christmas season through January 6 when we celebrate Epiphany to remember the Magi visiting the Christ Child.

There is something poetic about Christmas still lingering around; no longer the center of attention. There is a moment after the birth of a child when the extended family members return home, the meals stop coming into the house, and everything is calmer...except for the fact that there's a new life in the house. Life settles into routine but there is a child there that has fundamentally transformed life. It's ordinary yet it's not. And it will never go back to being the same. A new life changes everything. Christmas is supposed to change everything.

One of the best parts of being a parent is getting a second chance to see the world through the eyes of a child. You even get to see things you never got to see yourself. On the last day of 2017, I got to see my young sons see a Star Wars movie on the big screen and it was pretty magical.

I grew up loving the adventures in a galaxy far, far away, but I initially knew them only from VHS tapes. It wasn’t until I was 13 when I saw the Special Editions in the theater, which was cool but it’s not quite the same as being a wide-eyed seven year old.

Our family went to see The Last Jedi with some friends from church. Liam sat to my left, Jim, the oldest, to my right. When the movie started, I read the opening crawl to him. He responded, “I could’ve read that Dad.” And we were off. 

We were rushing out to our car in the frigid cold. Suddenly our oldest son froze in the middle of the park and our entire day with him. With a quiet concern that masked panic, he wondered aloud, "Where's George?" George, his stuffed monkey. His constant companion since he could barely talk. At first, I said he didn't come inside the mall, but with horror I immediately corrected myself.

George did go inside with Jim. And now he wasn't with Jim. And I couldn't remember the last time I had seen him.

I cursed under my breath as I rushed back inside the food court to check the table where we had eaten lunch. No George. I ran to the one store we went to after we had eaten. I looked around. I asked the employees if they had seen a stuffed monkey. They checked behind the counter. "Sorry, no."

I can't stop thinking about Sandy Hook today. I was reminded this morning that it has been five years since that indescribably tragedy. I saw faces of children whose lives were ripped away on that day. And it all felt like a boot on my chest.

I see my sons in their faces. Our oldest was two and an only child when the shooting happened. Five years on, he's the same age as some of the children who died that day. His little brother is not too far behind him. He'll start elementary school in the fall. And I cannot imagine the hell those parents went through; that they still go through.

You would think that day would have galvanized us as a country. That we would have done something, anything to try to make sure that didn't happen again. You would think that children being murdered in their school would have brought us together to protect the future that beat inside their hearts.

The calendar gave us an early Thanksgiving this year and it seems like it has been an eon between turkey and Advent. But I am ready for Advent. I need Advent right now. I need it more than I need Christmas. Advent might be the most real that the Christian faith gets. It is darkness and defiant hope. It rages against the powerful who pay lip service to God but leave the marginalized out in the cold. Advent is when we stand in the thick of Already and Not Yetness of the Reign of God. When we sit alongside those waiting for Immanuel and wait ourselves for when all shall be made right. 

I was typing away at Starbucks this morning as the playlist in the room changed from the coffeehouse’s typical brand fo corporate indie to eclectic Christmas grab bag. Somewhere in the midst of things “Last Christmas” started playing and, for some reason, I started overanalyzing the song.

Last Christmas I gave you my heart
The very next day you gave it away

That’s rough. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Maybe not on Christmas. It’s more like a random Tuesday in March, but it stings nonetheless. But on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas where there’s already a melancholy holiday hangover (in America, I think the day is actually more festive in George Michael’s UK. Or not, maybe it just involves a lot of watching BBC. I don’t know), that cuts deep. I see why you’re singing this song, person.