on dust and spring
Remember you are dust and to dust you will return.
As I sat in the pew of a darkened sanctuary last Ash Wednesday, these words drew unwanted tears. I reflected on the death of a friend just three days before. In 2012, Bonnie and I sat next to each other to receive the mark of ashes upon our foreheads. We spent ten long days during the season of Lent living in a thatched house on a Tanzanian mountainside. We sang next to each other among a crowd waving palms, we ate at the same table on Easter Sunday. Unexpected news of her brain tumor arrived early February and on March 2, the Sunday before Lent began, she passed away. The woman who spoke with gentility and sang praises with joy came from dust, and to dust she was returned. I ached recognizing the frailty of life. The sign of mortality drawn above my eyes foreshadowed the reality of death that was to mark the days ahead.
Four weeks later, I received another wave of unexpected news. “Kendall, I wanted to let you know that Emma is in critical condition in intensive care.” In 2010, Emma and I attended worship services together twice a week. We danced while we baked in the galley of our ship home, we worshipped to the calming strum of her guitar. We sat on the outer deck, she smoked and I prayed that her depression would dissolve. On a tearful Maundy Thursday, I told her goodbye, I flew from Togo to the States. Four years later, on the day that I should have been waving palms, celebrating Jesus triumphant entry, I instead stood among a crowd clothed in back, I watched her body lowered into the ground. From dust she had come, to dust she was returned.
Today marks the beginning of a new season of Lent, a new chance to alter the rhythms of our spiritual lives. To reflect on our mortality, to remind ourselves of the need for repentance, to prepare ourselves for the celebration of death’s defeat. But once again, this season has been marked with mourning.
“Kendall, do you remember Vinnie?” On Sunday evening I was lying in bed when I received the text from my sister. Though I hardly knew this high school classmate, I remembered his humor, I remembered classes disrupted by students stifling laughter. “He died today.” Again, three days before Ash Wednesday, death initiated the sobering season. From dust he had come, to dust he was returned.
But while this day is meant to remind us of our mortality, while this season is meant to sober us, to make us attuned to the depravity of our sin, this day and this season must only be embraced alongside the knowledge of Christ’s reconciliation. Throughout this day, I fast from eating. As my stomach churns in hunger, I reflect on the only One who can satisfy. Early this evening, I will receive the imposition of ashes. As I reflect on my own sin and mortality, I will remember the frailty of life, and I will mourn the friends whose lives were taken far too soon. But when I walk from the darkened sanctuary, I will go and I will eat. As my stomach is absolved of its hunger, I will reflect on the one who brings joy in the midst of mourning. I will enter the season of Lent looking forward to a celebration of life.
“And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life.”