Ashes, echoes and no creamer

There are two kinds of Catholics on Ash Wednesday. Those who walk out of Mass with a perfectly symmetrical cross on their forehead, and those of us who look like we lost a fight with a fireplace.

Every year, it is a gamble.

You stand in line, head bowed, contemplating your mortality, your sins and, most importantly, the priest's fine motor skills. Some priests are artists. Michelangelo with a thumb. Others? Let us just say their ashes resemble a weather pattern.

I once walked out with what looked less like a cross and more like a smudge from checking my oil dipstick. And you cannot fix it. You...