Life with Ashes

It was time to move.
Goodbye to Allen Parkway and hello to Florin Wood.
Our family was moving from Houston to Sacramento.

This was over 20 years ago and the day comes back with ashes. And a smell. My dad had piled all our old clothes, furniture, and knick knacks into a huge heap in front of our yard. He poured gasoline generously and lighted it with a smile. My mom looked on regretfully. All seven of us kids were delighted with the dancing flames. The neighbors didn't care. We lived in what they called the ghetto part of the world and since we were not shooting at anyone, we were okay.

"We're starting a new life," my dad reassured mom as our van entered the highway. "No need to hang on the old stuff."
"It was pretty dinky, wasn't it?" my mom replied hesitantly. Our years in Houston were our first years living in the United States, far away from the land of our origin, Vietnam. What dad burnt was the few possessions we accumulated from church donations and kind relatives.
"Let them go, honey. It'll be a fresh start in California. They say the weather is beautiful. We bring in newness with newness." All of us were wearing brand-new clothes. Shiny pots and pans clinked at the side of the van. A dewdrop sparkled on the windshield wipers.
"I hope so. The kids need a better place to grow up," my mom slowly answered.

Ashes. That was what was left of our old life in Houston.
Ashes. My nose still tingles with the smell.
Ashes. Today, many people come to church to receive it. Hopefully, they know it is a sign to leave their old life behind. What do they think when they receive ashes?

I think of the ashes strewn on fields and laid at trees. It fertilizes the ground and new plants come up, full of life and blossoms.

I think of the ashes on our front yard in Houston. It was my parent's heart-wrenching decision to uproot us and bring us to a new life in Sacramento.

I think of the ashes I receive every Ash Wednesday. It invites me to kindle anew the only fire that can burn away oldness, the fire of Love.