Last night, I went to church for my favorite service of the year, the night mass for Ash Wednesday.

My relationship with religion is funny. For a long while, I considered myself a church-going atheist, because while I loved the smells, bells, and contemplation, I wasn't quite sure I could buy into an intelligent design for the universe, or that Christ was the son of God. However, I do think Jesus was a radical guy; and I now agree with Einstein about the universe: In other words, SOMETHING is going on.

I was raised an Episcopalian in a church that was what Anglicans call "high church," and what Roman Catholics call "Catholic Lite." In other words, it was Catholicism in every way except for the use of the King James Bible (I still prefer it to any other) and The Book of Common Prayer -- an uncommonly beautiful document, with a service for, well, for the dead that is the saddest and most majestic thing. The Book of Common Prayer is something anyone who loves language should read.

As years passed, I began to attend Roman Catholic church out of respect for my late husband's family; and most of my children were baptized RCs. Drawn to the Mozart and the politics, I then went to the Unitarian Church, but, begin a ritual addict, was disconcerted by the way in which every service was different on a given Sunday.

Now, when I can, I go to Episcopalian church again, though it's dififcult to convince the children to do so. The drive to the nearest one is far; and if you haven't heard the service the way it was said 30 years ago, well, it would sort of be like hearing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing "Alexander's Ragtime Band."

Last night, the priest, a woman named Wendy, told the story of her family's Lenten tradition, which was comically like my own. Her mother, she said, always gave up smoking for Lent, joyfully taking it up again the Saturday before Easter. She said she herself always gave up chocolate, but never made it through the 40 days without a Hershey bar. I give up my own treasure, peanut butter.

But what the Reverend Wendy recommended was this: She said that instead of giving up things in respect for Jesus' Passion, to try giving in, as an alternative.

Give in on an argument in which you know, but just can't admit, that you are wrong, for example.

There was an incident like this in our house recently: One of my older sons said it was annoying that the Olympics were held in such an obscure place as "Torino." I remembered telling him that Turin was hardly an obscure place. He insisted that Turin and Torino were two different places. I said they were no different from each other than Florence and Firenze -- that "Tornio" was just the italian language version. He said I was nuts. I SHOWED him a photo on the Internet of two women walking past a poster of the Olympic rings with TURIN printed in bright red letters above it. He still wouldn't agree and finally asked me why I was so obsessive.

As I sat in church, I thought of the many (thousand) times, I had done the same thing, gone on harping or fuming when I knew full well that I should have given in and said, "You know, I'm wrong about this" hours earlier.

And I decided to take Reverend Wendy's adjuration to heart. Give up grudges. Give in when I'm wrong. Give in when I'm right, occasionally. Give up a little more anger.

But peanut butter, too.

Jackie Mitchard

I wonder how many of you read Salon.com, the online magazine. I have begun in the past year to read it; and it's fascinating. It's very hip, in the way Rolling Stone used to be, without being heavy-handed; and some of the best writers around regularly have articles appear there. (Hey guys, what about me, huh?)

The stories I read there make me laugh, make me mad, make me think, and even, occasionally, make me cry. It offers everything from essays on politics to essays on motherhood. i love it. (Hey guys, what about me, huh?)

But what's really fascinating about Salon is that it truly mimics the tradition of "the salon," not the beauty salon, but the gathering place where people who thought about things met to talk about their thoughts. People used to host "salons," in France and even in the United States, regular evenings of discussion, in much the same way we host book clubs now -- though i believe people dressed up more and didn't necessarily have to stick to one book. You have to pay to subscribe; but you never have to leave Salon in the boarding area when you get onto the plane, and the cost is what most people spend in two weeks on coffee.

And speaking of books, I recently discovered two other websites I found fascinating. One is booktreasurehouse.com, a website authors and publishers can join that offers a hots of fascinating options for a very modest cost.

The other site is special to me, though it's aimed at young adults and teenagers. it's called atticusclothing.com (or something very close to that) and it features clothing with the name 'Atticus' on it and a picture of a bird lying dead on its back -- a reference, of course, to the book 'To Kill a Mockingbird.'

My youngest son is named Atticus after Atticus Finch, the reluctant hero and the father of the narrator, Scout, perhaps the most enduring character in 20th century American fiction. The author, Nell Harper (Harper Lee) once graciously signed a copy of that book to me, although she doesn't do that sort of thing; and when it was (temporarily) misplaced in a move, I roused the disgust of my family by lying in bed crying for a whole day. The website actually is dedicated to several rock bands, one apparently called Loser Kids; but how loser could they be to choose such a smashing logo?

Anyhow, the youngest of my three older sons will this month stand godfather for his baby brother, Atticus, as his two older brothers have stood godfather for their younger sister and brother.

Since he doesn't read this website, and wouldn't if I paid him to, I can tell you that his gift for this occasion is a t-shirt that reads "Atticus." This son also holds the indoor record for having been forced to read 'To Kill a Mockingbird,' having been assigned to read it in seventh, eighth, ninth and eleventh grade.

In ninth grade, he nearly got kicked out of class for breaking into laughter when his teacher was reading a passage from the book aloud.

It was the part in which Atticus Finch, having failed to save his client from a wrongful accusation of raping a white woman, turns in sorrow to leave the courtroom. Up in the gallery -- what was called the "colored" section of the courtroom in the south of the 1930s -- Scout Finch is watching with the reverend of the church she sometimes attended with the family's housekeeper (Atticus Finch was a widower).

As he passed beneath them, the Reverend said, "Stand up, Miss Jean Louise. Your father's passing."

When she read that part, Marty's teacher began to cry. And my son Marty, who has never, not once, not ever, despite being nearly a straight-A student, received a report card in which he was NOT reprimanded for talking too much, began to laugh. The teacher asked him, "Is there something funny about this to you, Mister Brent?"

And Marty helplessly explained, no, of course not, except for the fact that his mother had read that passage aloud to him probably 50 times; and every time, his mother had done exactly the same thing -- that is, become choked up and begun to cry.

And she is, right now.

Jackie Mitchard