(Illustration by Daria Kirpach)
On communion Sundays, I bless the children in our congregation. One by one they stretch forth a palm or hold back their bangs as I make the sign of the cross with oil. This oil is held in a small stone vessel that fits in the palm of my hand. I skim the surface with the pad of my thumb and mark each child.
Each week I invite one of the children to offer me a blessing as well, to mark me with the sign of the cross. This Sunday it is Juliet who raises her hand, scooting forward on her knees as I hold out the vessel of oil to her.
She plunges her finger in, up to the first knuckle. I lean toward her as she marks a large cross on my forehead. The excess oil is dripping down her arm. The cross, glowing and bright, leaks down my face, into my eyebrows, and along the bridge of my nose. “Jesus loves you,” Juliet announces, unperturbed. She skips back to her seat, but I am rooted in place for a moment. There is so much oil.
