I drove to Gethsemane Lutheran in Austin for the laying on of the ashes, which, for some reason I don't understand, is very meaningful to me, and, as soon as I got out of the car, I started crying. The tears spilled over as I walked across the grass to the open door and walked up the aisle of the empty, darkened church.
Was I all alone? Had I missed the ceremony?
But no--a tall male figure emerged from the shadows, and as he drew nearer, I recognized him as my semi-retired pastor, Karl Gronberg.
He recognized me at the same time, which brought on another bate of tears, although, again, I don't know why. Maybe nostalgia, maybe the solemnity of the occasion, maybe the relief, for a short time, of not having to deal with decisions about erosion, automobiles, tax preps, and the like, or maybe just because I was thrilled at finding someone I used to know who was still alive and still on the job.
After Pastor inscribed the cross on my forehead--which triggered another crying jag--we talked about politics, our families, and our departed friends, then blessed each other on our way.
PS: I gave him a full bag of DUMP TRUMP buttons.
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