Remind you of what was, or what isn't. You find yourself saying, "this time last year" or the year before, or the year before that. You smile when you think of the first Ash Wednesday your son remembers, more for the pancakes than the ashes. And you walk the aisles of the supermarket, intent on maintaining any semblance of tradition through the years and the moves and the countries.
It's not terribly hard, not really all that sad. But it is movement, it is change, it is a longing for security and steadiness and sanity. It is not wanting to forget but also trying to move forward. It is hope and doubt, rolled into one. It is faith.
The email pings just now, a hotel or an airline or a booking agency. The emails never end, hinting that we should be going somewhere. We will, even if it's the slow steady ascent up the faith mountain, or a drive into the city to claim and wear the ashes.
After all... it's the Person - not the place - we seek.
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