I felt a pull.
A pull to tradition.
A pull to recenter.
A pull to come back to the basics.
So tonight, I went to church for Ash Wednesday. A simple worship, sermon, ashes, and communion. Nothing crazy, nothing wild. Just traditional.
Chills went through my spine when the Reverend touched my forehead and said the words, “You are dust, and to dust you will return.” I felt that truth deep in my bones. Not in a heavy way. Not in a hopeless way. But in a grounding way. A humbling way.
Ash Wednesday is a day of repentance. A reminder of our humanity. A reminder that we are fragile, finite, and fully dependent on Christ. As those ashes rested on my skin, I felt the gentle whisper of the Spirit: Give Me your whole heart. Not partway. Not holding back. Not hiding anything. Fully.
I sat in the back of this small church—one I’ve only ever been to for events, to help a friend, for lighter moments. And tonight, I sat there with a silent tear rolling down my cheek. A tear as I remembered myself. The places I’ve fallen short. The places I am weary. The places I so desperately need my Lord right now. I sat typing out a prayer for Him to show up, to enter into my life in a new way. When the Lord is invited in such a way, He shows up more than you ever expect!
I sat in that pew feeling anxious. After all, I knew no one and only met a few at events a couple times. I was anxious and didnt know if I fit in. As I look down, the hymnal has a card sticking iut that says "Peace be with you". In that moment, I knew I was where God wanted me to be.
This church was founded in 1771. The stories the ground could tell. The tears it has witnessed. The laughter. The marriages. The funerals. The roots run deep. And as I reflected, I realized that’s exactly why I was there. I needed those roots. I needed worship that is ordered, connected, historic. I needed to draw back to something steady and ancient.
And as I thought about the ashes—about dust—I couldn’t help but remember the story of the woman caught in adultery in Gospel of John. When everyone else stood ready to condemn her, Jesus bent down and wrote in the dust. He didn’t shame her. He didn’t condemn her. He met her at ground level. In the dirt. And from that place, He changed her life.
The dust. The dirt. The ashes.
He healed a blind man with mud. He wrote mercy in the ground. And tonight, He marked my forehead with ashes. Over and over again, Jesus chooses the dust—the very thing that reminds us of our weakness—to display His grace. He choses to get into the dust, the mud, the ashes with us. Not for us because we are not promised no troubles in the life. But with us because we are promised that He will abide with us.
It’s all connected.
Lent begins here. It is a season of intentionally fixing our minds on the Lord. Of remembering His sacrifice. Of anticipating His return. Of allowing Him to search our hearts and reshape us. These forty days are not just about giving something up—they are about making room. Room to be refined. Room to be softened. Room to let Him change us so that, in small faithful moments, we can reflect Him and change the world for the better.
I love my worship time with the Lord—music, dancing, freedom, all of it. But sometimes I need the slowed pace of an organ. The sound of hymns echoing through a sanctuary. The repeated prayers of the congregation. The hushed silence of reverence.
Sometimes I need to remember that I am dust.
And sometimes I need to remember that He steps into the dust with me.
Ash Wednesday didn’t leave me feeling condemned. It left me feeling invited. Invited to surrender. Invited to humility. Invited to transformation.
From dust… to grace.