Ice instead of Ashes

I had planned on attending an ecumenical Taizé service for Ash Wednesday. I had planned on having that gritty past smeared on my forehead in the shape of a cross to remind me of what seems pretty clear to me already most of the time— that we are formed from dust and to dust we will return. But instead, there was ice. A storm blew through, coating the trees, the grass, the roads, and the power lines with a thick and glimmering layer of ice. And while I missed attending that contemplative service, I realized that ice was also useful in helping me reflect on my contingency, on the fragility and beauty and danger and complexity of life. Ice is sharp but fragile, destructive but beautiful, limiting but transformative, pervasive but temporary.

Everything, it seemed, closed early or was cancelled. Stores and schools, meetings and social events halted. Sometimes the world imposes its sudden and fretful limits upon us and we have no choice but pull back and reassess. Sometimes things stop. Sometimes things break. Sometimes our limits are out of our control. But I see beauty in the ice, too. It is necessary sometimes to pause and remember that we cannot do it all. It is important to remember that we are fragile and dependent, that we need each other, and we need God.

As the storm progressed, I felt my nerves heighten, the awareness of my lack of control sharpen. The power clicked off and back on, off and back on. I felt aware of how I was at the whim of nature and chance. I could only watch and wait, see the beauty and wait for whatever might break. It turns out, I was just fine. The power stayed on. I didn’t need to try to chance the roads to get to work. I was safe, ensconced in my cozy home, but aware the whole time that it was out of my hands. The morning after the storm, the birds were noisy. I wondered if they were chattering to each other, “what is this? What has happened to our whole world? Is there a safe place for me to land?” But for them, too, the ice will melt. The crisis will pass, and God’s loving and gracious presence will be attending to each and every one of them in the meantime, just as it is with us. I have learned a lot about how quickly things can change recently, both in wonderful ways and in devastating ones. The ice reminds me of this. Everything can change all at once, but it will also keep on changing. 

Like most things, this will pass. The air will warm, or the sun will come out, and this beautiful, dangerous thing will melt. We are contingent, but most of the time, so are our circumstances. We are reminded during this season of Lent that we came from dust, and to dust we will return. We check in with our limitations, with our contingency in this season. We remember our reliance. But we also remember that God’s view of the world is different than ours, and the things that seem impossible, unchangeable, and never ending are also fleeting in the mind of God. Even death. Even things that seem broken beyond repair. I don’t want to rush to the catharsis of Easter, when we are reminded of this full and final reality. I want to give myself a chance to sit with the dust, with the ice, for a little longer. But I hold in my heart the reminder that this is not the end, that this fragile and difficult world as we encounter it now is not the end of the story. Instead, much like the ice that coats the landscape around me right now, everything will see the goodness and restoration of God. I take comfort, too, that not only am I contingent and passing, but so are the most challenging circumstances that I face. And beyond it all, surrounding it all, is the grace of God, promising that this too will be made new.