A Quiet Hope

And How Ash Wednesday Points Us to What We Need

The dreamy snowscape we enjoyed ever-so-briefly has already melted away. But I savored every minute of the snowfall while it lasted.

As the tiny snowflakes danced in the air, I turned around my favorite reading chair to face the window. Watching the powdery flurries fall, I sat with a hot cup of tea, quietly mesmerized by it all.

One thing that stood out to me was the sense of quiet that enveloped our neighborhood. Not a single car could be seen. Nor an engine heard. Just blissful quiet. Everywhere.

I could easily live in a place where Snow Days like this happened more often, for within a few days, I knew the returning warmth of the sun would wash the white away.

The rapidity with which this dreaminess dissipated was yet another reminder that every season is simply that — a season. Everything we experience on this earth is bound by time.

And today is Ash Wednesday, another reminder that while we are encased in this flesh, we too are moving toward a certain inevitability.

I’ve never been a part of a church tradition that officially observes Ash Wednesday. It’s mostly because of the Internet I know anything about it, but I do know it ushers in the season of Lent, which marks the days as we march toward the cross and beyond.

Lent is a time for fasting and praying. A time to remember how mortal we really are. We want so much to believe we are decades away from such an event as death. But even our very breath is something we receive as a divine gift.

Recently, while reading another book on prayer, I came across these words, and they’ve stayed with me:

“At my very first Ash Wednesday service, over a decade ago, I knelt in a quiet sanctuary and . . . as the priest marked each forehead with a cross of ashes, I felt like he was marking us for death. I was angry at death. . . . I don’t want to face the reality of vulnerability — especially the vulnerability of those I love. I’m privileged and healthy enough to maintain the illusion of control. I distract myself from the howling fury of suffering and mortality. I check Facebook. I tweet . . . I get busy. I fill up my life with a thousand other things to avoid noticing the shadow of death.” ~ Tish Harrison Warren

How many of us relate?

For me, maybe not so much the social media part. I gave that up almost three years ago. But I can still find ways to distract myself. With each passing day, however, I am reminded more and more how time continues to slip by, like the proverbial sands in an hourglass.

At my age the news of another person passing, from this life to the next, seems to come slightly more often now. Death and the insidious hollowness it brings becomes something we are less able to hide from, which is why I have continued to ponder these words:

“One thing that draws me to Christianity is that we are allowed to hate death. I don’t have to act as if darkness is any less dark than it is. I don’t have to stoically accept it as part of the circle of life. Death is an enemy.” ~ Tish Harrison Warren

And this:

“If we sentimentalize death and minimize its brutality, we end up, often unwittingly, belittling the hope of resurrection.” ~ Tish Harrison Warren

The hope of resurrection.

This is, indeed, the hope we all need.

And ultimately, this is what Ash Wednesday serves to remind us of, that while death for now is real, a resurrection is coming for those who put their trust in Christ.

So I wrap a chenille blanket close and smile as the puppies play in the snow and adult children make snow angels. For it’s in these quiet moments we savor the goodness that grace brings.

I don’t know anyone personally who does the work of marking foreheads with ashes. Sometimes I wonder if deep down I’m an Anglican at heart. At any rate, I am reminded, today and every day, that we all come from dust and to dust we shall all return (Genesis 3:19).

And I want to carry with me the hope that is real. To share this hope with others. For it is the hope of resurrection that sustains us.

Shalom.

Denise

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A Few Notes…

*The quotes are from Prayer in the Night by Tish Harrison Warren.

*Photo credit to my hubby, who took all of these photos in our backyard.

*While Waiting for Morning: An Invitation to Pray is available. If you’re like me and you prefer to hold a printed book in your hands, you can find a copy at Barnes and Noble or Amazon.

*Thank you for your vote of confidence when you tap on the “heart” at the top of each post. And, as always, you are welcome to share these words with a friend.

*And lastly, no part of this newsletter — nor anything I have ever published — has been made with Artificial Intelligence (AI) or ghostwriters. All of my words, including any accidental typos, are my own, except for when I quote others with appropriate citations and links.