There are many times in my life when I’ve felt small and unseen.
Many times when my spirit sank so low I couldn’t even remember “up” much less find it.
But there is no moment so humbling as the one when I came face-to-face with the undeniable FACT that my son had exhaled for the last time.
Read the rest here: Blessing The Dust, A Prayer For The Broken
There are many times in my life when I’ve felt small and unseen.
Many times when my spirit sank so low I couldn’t even remember “up” much less find it.
But there is no moment so humbling as the one when I came face-to-face with the undeniable FACT that my son had exhaled for the last time.
Walking into the sanctuary where his body lay still, unnatural and absolutely silent, my heart shattered into even smaller pieces.
So I understand Job’s cry.
I cry out to You for help, but You do not answer me; when I stand up, You merely look at me.
Job 30:20 HCSB
I know what it is to fall to the ground in utter dejection, complete hopelessness and pray, pray, pray that life leaves my body because the pain is unbearable.
That’s one reason Lent is a kind of relief every year.
It’s a season when others join me in admitting that from dust we came and to dust we will return.
But it’s also a season of hope.
Because while Lent forces my heart to focus on my frailty, it points me toward my Savior.
The One who made us is the One who rescues us.
The One who saves us is the One who sees us.
The One who sees us is the One who longs to comfort us.
I love this blessing by Jan Richardson:
“All those days
you felt like dust,
like dirt,
as if all you had to do
was turn your face
toward the wind
and be scattered
to the four corners
or swept away
by the smallest breath
as insubstantial—
did you not know
what the Holy One
can do with dust?
This is the day
we freely say
we are scorched.
This is the hour
we are marked
by what has made it
through the burning.
This is the moment
we ask for the blessing
that lives within
the ancient ashes,
that makes its home
inside the soil of
this sacred earth.
All those days
you felt like dust,
like dirt,
as if all you had to do
was turn your face
toward the wind
and be scattered
to the four corners
or swept away
by the smallest breath
as insubstantial—
did you not know
what the Holy One
can do with dust?
This is the day
we freely say
we are scorched.
This is the hour
we are marked
by what has made it
through the burning.
This is the moment
we ask for the blessing
that lives within
the ancient ashes,
that makes its home
inside the soil of
this sacred earth.
So let us be marked
not for sorrow.
And let us be marked
not for shame.
Let us be marked
not for false humility
or for thinking
we are less
than we are
but for claiming
what God can do
within the dust,
within the dirt,
within the stuff
of which the world
is made
and the stars that blaze
in our bones
and the galaxies that spiral
inside the smudge
we bear.”
—Jan Richardson, Blessing the Dust, For Ash Wednesday
It’s no secret I am frail, prone to break-even shatter-into the tiniest bits of dust.
But that doesn’t stop my God from gathering what’s left to make something beautiful.
When I find myself face down in the dirt, no strength to lift my head, I remind my heart, “[Do] you not know what the Holy One can do with dust?”
Twenty-four hours separate one of the most outlandish global parties and one of the most somber religious observances on the Christian calendar.
Many of the same folks show up for both.
Mardi Gras, “Fat Tuesday”, is the last hurrah for those who observe Lent-a time of reflection, self-denial and preparation before Resurrection Sunday.
It’s a giant party-food, fellowship and fun-a wonderful way to celebrate the blessings of this life.
Ash Wednesday, by contrast, is an invitation to remember that “from dust you came and to dust you will return”.
None of us get out of here alive.
Even where the Gospel is preached every Sunday there are those who forget this life is hard and often full of pain and suffering.
If your experience so far has looked more like Mardi Gras and less like ashes, well, then-be thankful.
But don’t be deceived.
“From dust you came and to dust you will return.”
For some of us it was a similar twenty-four hour turnaround that upset our world, tossed us headfirst into the waves of sorrow and burned that truth into our hearts, not just dabbed it on our foreheads.
Sometimes I feel excluded from fellowship with the saints because I can’t join in the celebratory spirit of a worship service.
When the hymns only focus on our “victory in Jesus” my heart cries, “Yes-but perhaps I won’t see the victory this side of heaven.”
When the congregation claps and dances to feel-good songs that celebrate the sunshine but ignore the rain, my eyes swim with tears because I know the reality of a downpour of sorrow.
Because sometimes praise is a sacrifice.
Church needs to be a place where we can share the pain as well as the promise that Christ will redeem it.
Jesus Himself said, “in this world you will have trouble”.
So I can’t claim allegiance to the Church of the Perpetually Cheerful.
I want to create space for the hurting and broken and limping and scared.
How about a new denomination that acknowledges the truth that life is hard.
Instead of the “Overcoming Apostolic Praise-filled Ministers of Eternal Optimism” I would name it the “Trudging But Not Fainting Faithful.“
By all means enjoy the “Fat Tuesdays” in life.
Drink them in, dance, celebrate!
But remember that it can change in a heartbeat.
And that it HAS changed for many of us.
There is hope.
All is not lost.
But in the meantime, it’s hard.
thelifeididntchoose 