Our dusty selves


dusty selves


Today is Ash Wednesday.

And I have no idea what is going on in my life.

And I wonder, sometimes, if maybe that is the point. I read a lenten devotional today, since today marks the first day of Lent. The author said that Lent was about stopping where we are. It’s about stopping, in the middle of where we were and where we think we need to be and being here. It’s about stopping and remembering our dusty selves – from dust, and to dust we shall return – remembering the two things we so desperately try to forget at every other buzzing, busy time: our sin and our humanity.

I read those words and they stopped me; they made me pause and stare and think – and I didn’t like it. Because it is exactly where I’m at right now. I might be here, but in my head, I am in a thousand different places. I have this personality that sometimes seems allergic to the present, forever lingering in what was and, lately, setting up camp in all the places I think I need to be running toward.

Believe me when I say it – there are so many places that I think I need to be right now. And if I am being honest with you, dear reader (which I am), then you must know this: I am so weary of all the places I think I need to be going to.

I am in this weird paradox: so intimately aware of my humanity and all the ways I fall short because of it, but so insistent on ignoring my humanity and just plowing through like I can do everything. It’s like I’m in an action film, and I’m the stubborn heroine who just got shot in the leg but insists it’s just a graze as I fling myself into battle once more. There. That makes it sound heroic. That makes it sound epic. Special. Like I care more about the people I’m battling for than my own single, solitary, bloody leg.

But I don’t think that’s how it goes. I’m not convinced that when Jesus stops us, when he slides in before us, as we run into the fray or shuffle into work or open up a new job application – that he only does it to cheer us on, to egg us forward, to commend our heroic and courageous deed.

I think maybe he’s trying to get us to stop.

Stop. Enough charging into this battle of your life. Enough seeing this life as your battle. You are dust, and to dust you will return. But in the meantime, you may rest.

And there, in the midst of it, his ashy thumb caresses my forehead and there is the cross.

Oh, it is so hard to stop. It is so hard even to pause, for the moments of daily communion, for the knowledge of the truth to sink into my bones: I do not have to win today. I don’t have to make a thousand decisions about my life, I don’t have to know what is happening and where I’m headed.

I’m weary of going places. I’m tired of battling. I’m tired of anxiety. I am tired of heroics.

Stop. Enough going places. Enough believing that you must always be going places and doing things and justifying your life for everyone around you. You are dust, and to dust you will return. But in the meantime, you may rest.

And there, in the midst of it, another ashy thumbprint swipes across my forehead and I am staring at my humanity and my failings and my fear and my worry and my spinning head and unknowable life.

It is here that I remember those Garden promises – the goodness of it all. The Way Things are Supposed to Be. I see the humanity – all the guilt and shame and baggage that comes along with it – and I remember that it was once Good. And this ashy cross, this paused Wednesday, everything it signifies is the way it’s all becoming Good Again.

Stop. Enough remembering the cross as the end. Enough wondering if this night will last forever. You are Good. You are becoming Good again. You are running toward the Garden – not a job or a marriage or a new city or an apartment or the fulfillment of some ideal life you’ve created. You are running through the ash and through the palms and through the open tomb and

You are running toward the Garden.

So breathe.

And there, in the midst of it, because that is where Jesus finds us, because that is where he is, because that is where our lives take us, because that is where it hurts, because that is where we’ve been shot, because that is where the battle rages, because that is where the sea is rising, because that is where your resume gets forgotten, because that is where your breath becomes erratic, because that is where you sink to the ground, because that is where we need him – one more ashy thumbprint cross to smooth out our furrowed brow.

Today is Ash Wednesday.



Waiting.                                                                                      Waiting.
We sit waiting for phone calls to be made                   We sit waiting for candles to be lit
and medicines to be brought.                                            and songs to be sung.
Waiting:                                                                                       Waiting:
for answers                                                                                for the Answer
or solutions                                                                                and the Solution
or a definitive statement                                                      the Definitive Statement
about how many answers we can expect.                     the Answer we didn’t expect.
Waiting:                                                                                       Waiting:
dying is strange.                                                                       dying is strange.
Stretched flat,                                                                            Stretched out,
broken and asleep but listening,                                        broken, beaten and listening,
because hearing is the last to go.                                       because hearing us is all He can do.
From far off,                                                                               From far off,
it looks like something difficult.                                        the manger and the cross were disconnected.
But from this close,                                                                 But waiting for one means waiting for both,
it is simple,                                                                                   and it is far from simple.
and it makes sense.                                                                  Love like this does not make sense.
Waiting.                                                                                        Waiting.
That’s what makes it hurt.                                                    The joy is building.
Tired eyes from premature grief                                       Widening eyes from the victory we already know
and twisting hearts from untold stories.                         and twisting hearts from the pain until then.
We hurt for ourselves, too.                                                  We hurt for ourselves.
It’s a selfishness that makes sense.                                    It’s selfish. But it hurts.
Waiting:                                                                                         Waiting:
breathing in, out, in.                                                                 breathing in, out, in.
Clasped hands.                                                                            Clasped hands.
Waiting.                                                                                          Waiting.

waiting for some One
to stop the waiting.