Ash Wednesday 2026: Dust and Straw

Today the priest or deacon is going to smear ash on my forehead and say, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” I’ll nod, walk back to my pew, feel appropriately serious for maybe ten minutes… and then slip right back into living like I’ve got endless time.

That’s the thing: I know I’m dust, but I don’t live like I’m dust. I agree with it theologically. I could explain it, preach it, post about it. But deep down, I still live like I’m permanent. Like I have decades to finally get around to obedience. Like my life is a rough draft I can keep editing forever.

And here’s the paradox: my actual life doesn’t feel permanent at all. My body, my energy, my mind—they’ve all been screaming “fragile” for a while now. The constant sickness, the fatigue, the sense that I’m on some kind of life support—physically, emotionally, spiritually—more than I want to admit. My limits keep reminding me I’m breakable. Yet somehow, I still plan, procrastinate, and protect myself like I’m indestructible. My life feels like a hospital room, but I keep pretending it’s a fortress.

Dust doesn’t get that luxury. Dust doesn’t get “later.” Dust gets one breath, one life, and then it scatters.

If I’m honest, I’ve been hoarding my life like it belongs to me. Hoarding my time like I’ll never run out. Hoarding my comfort like it’s a right. Hoarding my reputation like it will matter ten seconds after I die. I’m clutching dust, polishing dust, defending dust—and calling that “being responsible.”

And the worst part? I already know what God’s been asking of me.

The hard conversation I keep delaying.

The forgiveness I keep rationalizing away.

The generosity I keep calculating instead of just trusting.

The pride I keep feeding.

The addiction I keep “managing” instead of killing.

The lukewarmness I rename “doing my best.”

I know. I’ve known. I’m not confused. I’m just stalling if I'm being completely honest.

I treat Lent like it’s extra credit: for people with margin, for people who like religious challenges, for people “more spiritual” than me. But Ash Wednesday isn’t cute, and it isn’t optional. It’s God, through the Church, looking me in the eyes and saying: You are going to die.

Not “someday” in a vague way. Me. Personally. At a real moment in time. There will be a last Lent I ever see, a last Easter I ever celebrate, a last confession, a last chance to say yes. I have no guarantee this Lent isn’t the last one.

And when that moment comes, almost everything I’m obsessing over right now is going to be revealed for what it is. Embodying my inner Saint Thomas Aquinas:

The argument I won? Straw.

The image I protected? Straw.

The grudge I nurtured? Straw.

The approval I chased? Straw.

Thomas Aquinas spent his whole life building this massive, beautiful structure of theology for God—and after one deep encounter with Christ, he said everything he’d written was like straw. Not worthless, but weightless next to God Himself.

If Aquinas looked at his life’s work and called it straw, what does that say about my little pile of accomplishments and excuses? I’m clinging to dust and straw like they’re a kingdom.

This Lent, from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday I've got forty fasting days (forty-six actual days) where the Church is basically handing me a wake-up call: You’re dust. Your achievements are straw. So what are you going to do with the time you have?

Lent isn’t mainly about “giving something up” to prove I’m serious. It’s about finally letting reality hit: I am dust. I am not permanent. And without God, everything I build, defend, and obsess over turns to straw.

But here’s the hope: dust is what God likes to breathe into. Dust is what He shaped into Adam. Straw is what He can set on fire. My weakness, my limits, my nothingness—that’s not the disqualifier. That’s the place where His life actually starts.

If I’ll stop pretending I’m permanent.

If I’ll stop hoarding my time, my comfort, my control.

If I’ll stop polishing my dust and guarding my straw.

If I’ll finally open my hands and let it all fall.

I don’t want to crawl into Easter this year having technically “done Lent” while my heart stayed the same. I want something in me to actually die. The guarded, calculating, self-protective version of me that lives like there’s always tomorrow—that’s the one that needs to turn back into dust.

Forty days. That’s what I’ve got in front of me right now. Forty days to live like someone whose forehead has been marked with the truth. Forty days to let go of what won’t last and cling to the only One who will.

The ash is coming. The question isn’t whether it’ll be on my skin.

The question is: will it finally sink into my heart?

What are you still holding that needs to fall from your hands so God can actually fill them?