Wednesday morning, on the way to an Ash Wednesday service with my little grandkids, questions about the ashes came up. What were the ashes? Where did they come from? And why are they placed on our foreheads? All good questions these.
We don’t see many ashes these days. We are far removed from a time when Europe lay in ashes after World War II. Geographically, most of us live distanced from regions where the destruction of war still reduces places of grandeur to ashes.
Consequently, ashes evoke images from fairy stories, backyard fire pits, or logs in fireplaces (although fireplaces today often have those neat-and-clean artificial gas logs).
But for a Christian, the smearing of ash on the forehead marks the beginning of Lent. So I explained this simply, pointing out that the ashes are the burnt remains of festive fronds waved last year on Palm Sunday. I was just about to expound upon the deeper spiritual meaning of these fronds when the topic turned to cigarettes.
Why, asked my six-year old granddaughter, do so many actors in the classic movies smoke? So much for a theological discussion.
Smoking. Oh goodness, what an issue. And how the implications of it have changed in my lifetime! This grandchild is too young to appreciate a narrative of smoking’s history. She’s also too young to see the hilarity of my own bizarre understanding of smoking when I was a child. In fact, I probably should not tell you what I thought. But I will.
I thought that all adults had to smoke. I thought smoking was an adult obligation. Why? Because adults all seemed to do the same things. They got jobs, voted, paid taxes, and mowed their yards. They mysteriously became parents. Boys all grew up to serve in the military.
With so much uniformity in adult behavior, coupled with the fact that virtually every adult I knew smoked, then surely smoking had to be an obligatory adult activity too, right?
Oh how I hated smoking. It stank, it was dirty, and it seemed to “own” the actions of adults around me who were addicted to smoking, particularly those whose lungs were wrecked from the era when smoking was deemed glamorous and a normal part of life. No matter how hard we kids worked to find a spot where swirls of rank smoke did not cause us to gasp for breath, we never said: “Don’t do that, it’s bad for everybody!” or “I cannot breathe! Open the car window please!!!” Not back then.
So I dreaded the arrival of the day (around age twenty, I figured) when I had to start smoking.
Finally one day, timidly, I asked my older brother, “When do you have to start smoking?” I doubt he remembers me asking this question. But I remember. And I definitely remember the look he gave me—one that translates into “You are such a total duffus.”
Yet I didn’t mind his derisive look, because his answer filled my heart with joy: “You do not have to smoke. It is a choice,” followed by “Smoking’s stupid. Don’t do it.”
“Hallelujah,” I surely shouted. “Hallelujah and Glory to the Highest!” (Yes I know it’s Lent and Alleluia’s and Gloria’s are on hold until Easter). I was free. I didn’t have to do this awful thing. And I never did, nor did my brother.
Meanwhile, back to the conversation in the car about actors smoking in the old movies. It is hard to explain human behaviors to little ones. Or to explain why some habits, despite their destructiveness, still persist. Still, I did my best until we arrived at church and the topic moved to where to park.
Children’s minds are so different from adults. What we perceive as obvious can stay a complete puzzle to a child. Children draw conclusions about the world based on what they see around them. Hence, it is critical we present children with models that embody clarity, consistency, righteousness, and strength.
And it is critical to talk often with kids about the worldly imagery that surrounds us all, overwhelms our senses, and far too easily turns our heads. We cannot presume children know how things are supposed to fit together. Nor can we presume that they can identify goodness and truth.
The instant my brother said I didn’t have to smoke, I likely realized how stupid my fear was. Nonetheless, I had spent years with that fear, wondering how I would negotiate such a difficult problem.
Children have many such fears. We cannot anticipate them all. Nor can we discern each disconnect in a child’s mind as he or she grapples with processing what we teach. Even if we proclaim it for the twentieth time, not everything is going to make sense to a child’s mind. We have to look beyond the dutiful “yeses” and the nods of their little heads to ascertain whether they actually understand.
And above all, we need to be patient and kind when they blurt out things that prove how confused they are. Despite being able to say “Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall” with facility, little kids have no idea that Christmas isn’t coming right after Valentine’s Day. Nor can they explain why, weeks after learning to get shoes on the correct feet, suddenly it is impossible to do so again.
Life’s challenges and experiences will ultimately teach the hard lessons, and force children to fill in the gaps that beset their understanding. Meanwhile, let’s not laugh when they speculate on how the world works. In their curious words can lie truths that we need to hear.