Marilyn's Musings

Ash Wednesday marks the entrance into Lent. Typically, we’d participate in a worship service filled with time for reflection, repentance, and experience the imposition of ashes.

As a pastor, some of the most powerful ministry moments happen on occasions such as this. Reminding folks that they’re God’s beloved dust, knowing that you may officiate at their funeral, hear their hurts, baptize their babes, or sit with them in silence as they come to terms with life stuff. All of it. And marking a baby with an ashen cross? Whoa. Cuts right to the heart.

Post-imposition, the presider’s eye view reveals the stark sea of ashen foreheads. The ash penetrating the skin of our pastor thumbs, wedged into cuticle space, sticking with us long after the sending hymn. Humanity. Frailty. Finitude. In constant need of God’s grace, love, and mercy. Dust and all.

Why do you ash? What if you can’t get your ash in church or haven’t set foot in a church for much longer than a pandemic? God’s got you.

This year, consider other reminders of your dusty, broken, belovedness. Read Psalm 51 in a different version of the Bible than your usual go to. Spend extended time in prayer, conversing with the Creator. Take a walk. Observe your surroundings. What’s speaking to you?

My reminder today was road salt:

Salt spreaders scatter salt to keep the roads safe and clear.
God is clearing your path and protecting you along the way.

The salt makes a mess of my vehicle.
You are dusty just like that Honda, sister.

The windshield…I can’t see. No amount of washer fluid is going to fix this.
You see through your life experience filters. All will be revealed in God’s way and time. Besides, you have all the fluid you need: the waters into which you were baptized.

And now I’ve got salt all over my coat because I accidentally rubbed against my car.
You are dust, my beloved.
You are the salt of the earth.
You traveled in and exited the vehicle safely.
I called you. I claimed you. I named you beloved.
I’ve got you, now and forever.

Thanks for the reminder, God. Also thanks for car washes and constant care. Now let’s do Lent.

“One doesn’t discover new lands without consenting to lose sight, for a very long time, of the shore.” – Andre Gide

Inspirational quotes such as this one sound so pleasing to the ears when we first encounter them. Perhaps in reading the quote you envisioned sailing gently away from the shore on a yacht, cruise ship or even a sailboat as I did. Smooth seas. Sunny day. Not a care in the world. Back to reality. Mind you, I have roughly zero boat piloting skills. Other than rowing or paddling, I likely wouldn’t venture far from the shore. Navigation? No problem. I can read a map with the brightest and best of them. Actual steering and driving the boat? Another story for another time.

Pondering the quote on a deeper level proves more challenging. Think about it. Leaving the safety and familiarity of the shore behind, we venture forward. Whether we simply drift away from the coastline or embark full speed ahead, fear of the unknown sneaks in when we find ourselves in uncharted, unfamiliar surroundings. Discovering new lands sounds great until the shoreline sinks into the horizon.

When lost asea with no sight of the shore, how do we respond? Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me comes to mind. Seriously. Trusting God through the ebbs and flows and currents, we float with hope. God’s grace carries us until we land on those distant shores. Shore not in sight? No worries. God’s eyes are on you. Through every stormy night. Through calm or unbridled seas. Through it all. God has you. New lands await.