Of ashes, dust, and promise

On Ash Wednesday, faithful believers across the world receive the sign of the cross—ashes smudged into skin—a quiet but ancient mark of mortality.

Its message?
𝐹𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛.

The words settle with a weight I know far too well, for death is no abstraction to me. It has come to my door, sat at my table, taken my beloved’s hand, and led him away. I know the grief that lingers when love and life slip away, seemingly as fragile as the ashes that mark this day.

But today is about so much more than dust and ashes. It is about what follows—what rises from the ashes—what refuses to die.

The ashes, from which God vows to bring forth beauty, form a cross—the symbol of both death and hope, sacrifice and salvation, redemption and resurrection. This enduring mark, a mere whisper of what is yet to come.

As a widow, I have stood in the ruins. I have known the rending—the tearing apart of what once was. But I have also experienced the mending. The gentle, persistent work of resurrection happening even now—in the softness of grace, in the slow rebuilding of a life, in the hope that refuses to be extinguished.

We are dust, yes—but dust is not our destiny. And when the weight of grief presses hard, when the absence stretches on and the ashes feel heavier than hope, there is a promise that more awaits.

This life is not all there is. Frederick Buechner, one of my favorite authors, wrote, “Resurrection means that the worst thing is never the last thing.”

Indeed.

Ash Wednesday heralds the arrival of Easter, acknowledging the reality of death while pointing beyond it. It moves through the silence of Friday and into the dawn of Sunday, where life unceasing emerges from the grave. The cross, once a symbol of death, becomes a blazing emblem of victory.

And death—its sting now rendered powerless—is finally swallowed up in victory.

𝐹𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛.

Yes. But even the dust is held by God, and the ashes are not the end. And if I believe in Easter—and I do—then I believe in the promise that what has been broken will be made whole. What has died will rise again.

This day is a beautiful reminder of mortality eclipsed by mercy—of death defeated by the love that conquered it. This day is a call to remember, not just that we are dust, but that from dust, God is making all things new.

Our hope endures.

“Even the darkest moments of the liturgy are filled with joy, and Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the lenten fast, is a day of happiness.”
~ 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐨𝐧