On the First Thursday after Ash Wednesday
The black sheep and remembering
Ah, Facebook Memories—the intermittent reminders of our past that will burst unbidden when we open the app. Ta-da! Today we’d like to show you this thing you shared four years ago! Here’s an image you posted seven years ago! Though unbidden, they are not usually unwelcome. For example, Facebook recently showed me a post which confirmed that yes, my daffodils and spring heather were in full bloom in late February a few years ago just as they are now.
And I never get tired of having this photo show up.
Or this one.
The photo memory for today was the picture of the black Hebridean sheep. Before I get to the story of that particular sheep, a general bit of background about me and sheep and Scotland. As you might have heard, we have a lot of sheep in Scotland—more sheep than people. Shortly after we moved here, someone asked me, “Heather, do you ever see sheep?” which made me roar with laughter because I saw sheep literally every single day. And the best part of living near a lot of sheep is the lambs. It is a well-attested fact that I am a driving hazard during lamb season; every time I drive past a field of lambs I shout “LAMBIES!!!!” and try not to swerve off the road. When possible, I pull over to take photos. I have more video on my phone of lambs frolicking than I do of my own children. (Go Rural Scotland hosted Lambathon Live the past two years; you can check out their page to see farm tours and more information.)
Now, back to that black sheep. Throughout the early months of 2021, when we were living through yet another lockdown, I would meet friends for walks along our stunning Fife Coastal Path or on the West Sands in St Andrews. But as the weeks went on, and my back pain grew worse, walks became more and more difficult. One day—March 3, 2021—I drove to the end of the West Sands and parked in the furthest spot. I followed the path away from the town center toward the dunes facing Tentsmuir Forest. I passed a pen of sheep and paused to take some photos. I walked through the dunes and down to the beach, where I ambled for a few minutes before climbing back up the dunes. As I headed back to the car, I kept having to stop to catch my breath and then steel myself to keep walking. It was as if my left leg just did not understand how it was supposed to work, or was so fatigued that it could no longer work, and I had to mentally chant: “Keep taking steps. Keep taking steps. Almost to the car. Just a few more steps. You can make it.” I had wanted to take more photos of the sheep, but by then I was desperate to get to the car and sit down.
That was my last walk.
What makes me sad when I think back to that walk a year ago is not that I haven’t been close to a sheep for a year, or that I haven’t been to the West Sands for a year, or that I haven’t been on a walk with a friend for a year. Those might all be lamentable, but I am especially sad thinking about how unkind I was to myself. My internal assessment was as follows: Obviously I’m not fit enough, which must mean I’m lazy. Obviously my back hurts because I don’t do enough exercises, which must mean I’m lazy. Obviously I’m not getting better because I haven’t found the right strengthening / stretching / something program, which must mean I’m lazy.
Obviously my self-assessment was wrong.
I’m sure there have been times in my life when a charge of laziness would have been warranted, but there was no way to outwork or outwit the havoc being wreaked by cancer cells in my bones. I didn’t need more effort. I needed the right diagnosis. I didn’t need to push harder. I needed treatment.
I’m reminded of this photo from my friend Liv. After many months of being told that her agonizing stomach pain was IBS or gluten intolerance, she finally received a diagnosis of serious bowel cancer. She was 29. What to do when you find out your symptoms aren’t due to your lack of dietary diligence or ability to power through the pain?
I could contort this memory into a moral. But I don’t feel like the point is to find a lesson, a takeaway, a principle. I just want to sit with the memory for a bit. I was trying so hard and feeling so awful. I didn’t have compassion for myself; I said things that I would never say to a friend: You’re so lazy. You’re pitiful. You’ll never be in shape. You’re embarrassing. I wasn’t lazy. I was ill. And it was a beautiful day. The beach was the perfect texture for walking—not too hard, not too soft. The sheep posed for a photo for the woman with the old iPhone, the woman who for once was glad for the wind that whipped her face so that not even she knew whether her tears were from the wind and sand or from the pain and exhaustion.
Ash Wednesday
Many Christians observed Ash Wednesday yesterday: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
And I have to confess that this year my thoughts in the days before Ash Wednesday could best be summarized as, “Yeah, I’ve already got the message—thanks.” I have one bone that has already turned to dust. I would like to spend less time thinking about the rest of them returning to dust, not more.
Apart from my own diagnosis, this has been a season when the dust has been thick and close. Three friends have buried loved ones in the past week. Other friends are mourning the impending anniversaries of losing loved ones. One nation has invaded another, and a friend has evacuated from Kyiv; other friends have family in Kherson and Kharkiv.
I have read the articles and essays and devotionals and think pieces about how Ash Wednesday reminds us of the futility of raging against the dust, how the submission of wearing a cross of ashes tears down our illusions of power and competence, how this day that inaugurates the season of Lent confronts our desires for acquisition. I don’t disagree with any of that. My dispute, my quibble, is that it becomes too cerebral, too much a principle or an argument. What does it mean to get a black cross on your forehead when you also have a black mark on your scan where a bone used to be? What does it mean to acknowledge you are powerless when tanks roll down your street? What does it mean to remember that you will return to dust when the dust seems to be seeping into your pores and threatening to choke your nostrils?
As much as I would like to request an exemption from Ash Wednesday (“Yeah, I’ve already got the message—thanks”), I know it’s futile to deny that indeed I am dust. But this year I might be forgiven for adding a little more to the liturgy: Yes, remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. And also remember that your dust still matters; it is both fragile and valuable, and it is worth fighting for. You will return to dust, but in the meantime, “be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other,” for others are fragile and valuable dust, too. You will return to dust, but dust will not claim the final victory. The somber beauty of Ash Wednesday is not the end of the story.
Prayer Request Update
It’s time to pray for neutrophils again! I’ll have blood tests early next week, with the hope of getting my treatment at the end of the week. I (still) don’t have an oncologist, but the chemo unit nurse knows my treatment protocol and my white count history so I think I should be able to get through this cycle of treatment without too much drama.
And pray for the people in Ukraine.
Heather, this was beautiful. Thank you for the vulnerability of admitting some of that punishing inner monologue and helping us to see how untrustworthy it often is.
I was so sad reading about your last walk and all the pain and discomfort you went through! And then I think of all you've been through and are going through even now. God has really helped you come a long way - because of your determination, the many prayers of God's people and the fact that you are NOT lazy!! Love reading all your posts. Thank you for keeping us all in the loop. Love, Mom M.