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