Ash Heads

I remember the Ash Wednesday service at St. Mary Magdalen. Every year, an entire grade school class would return from Mass as Ash-Heads—foreheads smudged, a little holier (and messier) than before. We had just been told we were going to die, and for the rest of the day, we carried those haunting words with us:

“From dust you came, to dust you shall return.”

Nothing like a little existential crisis before recess.

If you didn’t grow up with this tradition, you might wonder why churches like ours observe Ash Wednesday at all.

Some might question whether this ritual is trauma-informed practice for littles. Me too. But honestly? Maybe because of this practice, I know—at a cellular, even bonular level—that death always precedes new life.

Ashes come before glory.

And in these personal and global ashes, that truth gives me hope again this year.

Lent isn’t about seasonal deprivation or spiritual self-improvement. It’s about stepping into the wild of the soul, where transformation happens. Savoring the fragility and preciousness of life. Letting our personal and communal mortality return us to the unmarred image of the One who made us.

Ash Wednesday and Lent aren’t just Catholic customs; they are ancient Christian rhythms that invite us to slow down and tell the truth about being human. We begin with ashes because we remember what we often try to forget — we are fragile, finite, and deeply in need of grace. Before we rush to Easter joy, we walk the long road of honesty: repentance, reflection, and return. Resurrection means something deeper when we have first faced what must be released, surrendered, or laid to rest.

As Lent begins, I have intentions for these 40 days, but this year I feel less like making a to-do list and more like rewriting an old poem—one I first wrote for our spiritual direction students. I need it to meet me where I actually am: asking, seeking, listening to all that is here, in the wild of it all. Dying to what is. Hoping to resurrect in all the right ways.

Forty days of seeking—

I stand in this space and ask:
“What question am I able to bear?”

I do not yet know.
But this is what I long to be true—

I want to be present:
to God, to my neighbor, to myself.

So here in the wild,
I welcome all that is as my teacher.
I make room for the strange,
the imperfect,
even the dangerous—
in me, in others.

Grief, gratitude, anger, joy—
come, walk these forty days with me.

Welcome, childlike wonder and why’s—
let me hear the innocent questions.

Speak, adolescent, shocking, earthy humor and resistance!
Jolt me awake, unravel my small, domesticated self-sabotage.

Let grown-up wisdom sit with it all—
never ceasing to learn
from suffering, misunderstanding, misery,
even the evil that stalks.

God of wilderness and wonder,
I give thanks for this moment,
for these thin spaces between dust and glory.
For these companions on the journey—
within and without—
friends who help me hear
what has taken a lifetime to learn.

These people. This life. This place.

Three-in-One God, pattern of community,
help me be here now,
open to the gifts of this season.

Amen.
©clareloughrige2025

Question for reflection

How will you enter the questions in the wild that welcome ashes and new life?

Love God, Neighbor, and Self.

Sharpen personal and professional skills with the Enneagram here.