I will not have ashes on my forehead. I have seen enough ashes to last seven lifetimes of 70 Ash Wednesdays. Not on the outside. Not on the inside. Never, oh never, again.

When I look behind me, all I can see are the ashes.

The ashes of a childhood burned to nothing by the repeated rapes of a pacifist minister, ablaze with rage and demanding my silence. Seven times my age. Three times my weight. Stained, yet ordained over 50 years long. Now 30 years dead. Not ashes, but dust, as he was all along. That, and a song I knew sounded wrong. But who believes a little lost girl with a covering pinned on long, tangled curls?

The ashes of the paper certificate of church membership when I graduated from high school, returned from my mission trip. I was escorted into the pacifist church for one final view, to retrieve the Sunday school posters I drew, before the doors were locked and the church name was changed. Christ’s body here was dis-membered, scattered, torn apart by conflict. I was told to come back never again. Church homeless, still devout. You can’t shame my piety out.

The ashes of my brother at 38, who lived in the city and begged at the gate. He visited churches, looking for friends. When the pacifist pastor called the police, reporting my brother suspicious, I myself called the police, and my report was vicious. My brother was harmless, helpful and kind, over-medicated, lost, with a struggling mind. They found him dead and we laid him to rest, ashes in rows, church friends right and left.

The ashes of my son, 22, with his hair freshly washed and his white Converse shoes. Recently killed on his way home from work, in the middle of the day, with a violent jerk. The impatient driver did not wait, did not yield as the law clearly states. The lawyers between us hold the silence, hearing only the distant howl that escapes the pillow I clutch over my mouth when I sit in my son’s empty room, on his empty bed, with only a scream where the rhymes used to be.

The calendar says it is time to stand in line and wait for the ash to be smeared on my head. But I have had enough. I have found my voice, once silenced, locked out, buried, run over.

I stand alone in front of the cross. There is no line here. There has never been. That Old Rugged Cross has been beside my childhood bed to hear my rhyming prayers, my memorized verses, my questions that will be answered only in Glory. I love that old cross, but it will not be on my forehead for one evening of ashy pageantry. It is around my neck, in my heart, always in my mind’s eye.

The Man of Sorrows knows my grief and calls my name. He sings over me the words I know so well. He reminds me of his promises, which still stand. He tells me what is burned up here shines with glory over there, as I will one day. In the meanwhile, I carry his wounds and sing his tunes about his great love for me.

The poems come too, when I sit in the pew, now older and wiser with scars. I can forgive because I know I am forgiven. I will be rebaptized, leaving these ashes under the water and rising in newness of life. My resurrection. I will sing and serve beside my brothers and sisters who are also washed clean in the blood of the Lamb.

I know it is coming, when the ashes are mine, when I’m laid to rest in the fullness of time. My childhood innocence will be returned, my membership will be secure, my brother’s mind will know everything, my son will stand on that shore. Everything will be peaceful, just, perfect.

I remember so well leading my son to Jesus, and I look forward to when he leads me. This is the hope that marks my head, to see my King when my trouble is dead.

Janet Christophel of Lititz, Pa., holds a master of arts in religion from Evangelical Seminary.