One of my favorite childhood memories happened on Ash Wednesday. My mom took us to mass at St. Joes, we got ashes on our foreheads, and then went out to breakfast even though school had already started. I don’t remember the church service or any conversation. I only remember my pretty mom across the booth from me in the diner with the smudged cross on her forehead, and imagined mine looked exactly the same. I felt loved and proud. I belonged, to my mom and to my church. I was set and solid inside. A few years later we moved across the country and no longer went to the Catholic church. We didn’t celebrate Ash Wednesday. I felt relieved. By this point I had a Problem. And there was no way I could go to Ash Wednesday with it. The thought of a priest looking right at me, seeing my Problem, and maybe touching it made me shudder. My Problem was that I had bumps on my face. Blemishes, acne, zits, whatever. They were my greatest shame. I …