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Ashes Visible & Invisible

By Amanda Lauer, Leslea Wahl, Cynthia T. Toney, Marie C. Keiser, Ellen Gable, Corinna Turner, Antony B. Kolenc, T.M. Gaoutte, Theresa Linden

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LENT ROYAL AND ANCIENT by Amanda Lauer Glencoe, The Highlands, Scotland February 23, 1692 For the past ten months, I, Bronwyn Campbell, a typical American high schooler, have been living the life of a Middle-Ages Scottish lass. Or at least what I thought was the Middle Ages. I never could remember the exact years that the various historical ages started and ended. I’d come to love this ancient land, the beautiful people inhabiting it, the old Church and its sacraments, and a certain young man named Iain. I truly believed that God had sent me to the seventeenth-century Highlands for a reason. That being said, I’d experienced my share of heartache too, especially in the last ten days. Tragedy had struck the MacDonald clan. I shuddered just thinking about it. A lump formed in my throat and I blinked back the tears that threatened to spring up again.
While I’d once prayed to go back to my old life, I now prayed that God would allow me to continue building a life with Iain. Especially after he’d been thrust into the role of clan chieftain and would be depending on the support of the people around him that he knows and trusts. Watching him stride toward the stables, his ebony shoulder-length hair tied back with a leather string, a range of emotions flooded over me. There was empathy for the grief that he was experiencing, admiration for how he’d embraced his position of leadership, gratitude that he’d survived that God-awful day, and a sense of connectedness like I’d never felt before. Despite everything that his family had been through, Iain’s faith was unwavering. It was the first Sunday of Lent, and this morning we’d gone to Mass in the safe room on the second floor of the manor house. Father Ferguson had been conducting services there since his arrival last year. It would be dangerous to use the chapel on the property. Hard as it was to believe, practicing Catholicism in Scotland during this time was illegal. It was high treason for a priest to even enter the country. That being the case, having narrowly escaped execution in the Lowlands, Father had taken refuge at the home of his old friend, Gregor MacDonald, Iain’s father. To lessen the chance of being discovered, the priest was consistently garbed in a fashion similar to the other men on the property from his kilt with the matching vest in the plaid to the cotton peasant shirt, knee-high socks and leather ankle boots. It seemed odd to see a priest with a cravat wrapped around his neck rather than the white clerical collar. As had been the case since I’d arrived in Scotland, Mass was abbreviated and subdued. No singing, no extended sermons, and no adornments in the room other than a candelabra on the makeshift wooden altar. Mass was said in Latin. After all these months, I wasn’t proficient in that ancient language by any means. Not only that, but with his back turned to the family and speaking in hushed tones, I could barely make out what the man was saying. The homily was in English and, as per usual, Father got directly to the point. He outlined the three pillars of Lent—prayer, almsgiving, and fasting. With everything that had gone on in the past week, I’d given no thought to my Lenten sacrifice. Something to think about when I got back to the manor house.

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