- revmarissasue
- Feb 18
- 3 min read
We’ve gone from “Throw me something, mister!” to something much quieter.
From beads flying through the air to ashes traced on our foreheads.
And just like that, the Church calendar turns.
This Lent, our series is called “Tell Me Something Good.” It may sound like a strange theme for a season that begins with the words, “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Not exactly a Hallmark-card holiday. You don’t hear many people saying, “Happy Ash Wednesday!” with the same enthusiasm as “Happy Mardi Gras!”
But here we are.
Each year the palms we waved in praise become the ashes we wear in humility. Last year’s shouts of Hosanna! are burned into this year’s reminder of our mortality. On the surface, it feels somber—even a little morbid. Ashes are honest. They don’t let us pretend we are invincible. They level the playing field.
And yet.
There is something strangely hopeful about a cross traced in ash.
Because even as we remember that we are dust, the cross reminds us that dust is not the end of the story. The promise of resurrection is quite literally burned into the sign we wear on our bodies. Ash Wednesday only makes sense because Easter is coming.
Living in south Louisiana, we understand something about balance. If you have Mardi Gras without Ash Wednesday, you’re missing something. Joy without reflection can turn hollow. But the reverse is true, too. Without the revelry, the music, the laughter, and yes, even the king cake, Ash Wednesday can feel unbearably heavy. The Church, in her wisdom, gives us both. Celebration and confession. Beads and ashes. Brass bands and bowed heads.
They belong together.
Today, as I marked foreheads with ashes, I looked into the eyes of toddlers and great-grandmothers. I met people I may never see again. I traced the cross on those who live alone and those whose homes are full. On the healthy and the weary. On the joyful and the anxious. On those carrying diagnoses, grief, secret struggles, and quiet hopes.
Ashes are a great equalizer. In that way, they have something in common with Mardi Gras. No matter who you are or where you come from—dust.
And also—beloved.
Ash Wednesday reminds us that life is fragile. That loss is real. That time is not guaranteed. But instead of leading us into despair, this holy honesty invites us to live well. To love fiercely. To seek justice. To repair what is broken. To tell the truth about ourselves and about God.
And that is where the good news begins.
Lent is not a season of doom; it is a season of depth. Over the coming weeks, we will listen again for the goodness of Jesus—good news that meets us in ordinary moments, at wedding feasts and dinner tables, in parables and everyday encounters. Good news that insists all are invited. Good news that grows like yeast and surprises like water turned to wine.
So yes, today we wear ashes.
But we also carry hope.
If Ash Wednesday teaches us anything, it is this: there is no time like the present to live the kind of life that matters. To forgive. To reconcile. To show up. To tell someone something good.
Come get some good news this season.
And then go share it.
