Heavier Than Ashes
A Lenten reflection.
Advent tends to be such a joyful, fun, lighthearted time. With Christmas approaching, it becomes so easy to just bask in the excitement of it all. One doesn’t need to be Catholic — or even Christian — to feel all the excitement and cheery anticipation at that time of year.
But…what about Lent? What does it “give” us? What is it the beginning of? Sometimes Lent can feel like the evil counterpart of Advent. On the one hand, one awaits the beautiful arrival of sweet baby Jesus. The other one, though… The other one feels dark. Heavy. That one isn’t immersed in feelings of goodness, warmth, and “the most wonderful time of the year”-ness. No, that one feels more like dread. There is anticipation, yes, but anticipation for an event that we wish didn’t have to come. Evil. Brutality. The crucifixion. Death.
You know, I’ve realized that Lent can feel a lot like a terminal illness. Like terminal cancer. It can maybe feel like…your son being destined to die.
Today I noticed the heartbreaking amount of bereaved parents on my friends list. It makes sense, of course — I am one, too. I met many of them during Francisco’s cancer battle (with DIPG being a rare type of cancer, the DIPG parent community is a “small” one, in the grand scheme of things). Some have also turned to me as a friend after losing their child. Some have children still in the brutal battle. Some have had to very recently say goodbye to them.
My heart breaks. I am aware that when I speak, my heart and soul leap with joy. I know that when I write, my words seem full of faith and hope. And all of that is absolutely genuine. The little “tagline” that I have in my Instagram blurb says “turning grief into joy” — and yes! That is 100% honest, in great part because I had an absolute pro teach me how to do just that: my sweet little guy, Francisco.
But, in order to turn something into something else, you have to have a starting point. Your “raw material,” if you wish. My own raw material has been, and is, precisely that — grief. Rawness. Pain. Grace has allowed me to transform that into joy and trust…but make no mistake, I am still a mother whose child has died on this earth.
But you see, this is where the beauty of Lent comes in. Where the meaning of Lent changes everything. Yesterday during my monthly Lectio Catolica with the Daughters of St. Paul, one thing that stood out to me and remained stuck in my mind was the idea that “glory weighs more than ashes.” Glory is more substantial than ashes. It weighs more, it matters more, it is more.
What does that mean, though? And what can it possibly have to do with facing something as awful and terrifying as the imminent death of someone we deeply love? Or even with facing our own mortality? It has everything to do with it. Because Lent does not end in death — even though, technically, it does. What “ends” when Lent comes to a close does not remain. Easter is around the corner. And we are not a “Lent people.” We aren’t a “crucifixion people.” We are an Easter people. And Hallelujah is our song.
The cross to the Christian isn’t a reminder of mortality, endings, darkness, or death. The cross is a triumph. Because Jesus died on the cross, yes, but He also conquered death. He transformed it into something completely new. What was once evil, in Christ, was made good — and it was all because His death wasn’t the last word. Not even remotely.
So, my soul can transform grief into joy (in the same way my Francisco’s did), because Christ was able to transform death into Life. From ashes comes glory. From the lifeless physical body of my beautiful son came the most intense, wonderful, too-big-for-words joy in my soul. And I KNOW that joy wasn’t mine… It was, and is, Francisco’s. Because he, too, is alive — more than he has EVER been. Happier than he has ever felt. Surrounded by glory in a way his little mind would have never been able to comprehend on this earth, yet his soul yearned for it, because somewhere in there he knew what was to come.
My husband once described what Francisco seemed to be experiencing as he approached his earthly departure, as a “holy longing.” I always found that phrase to be perfectly accurate in explaining those last few weeks of my boy on this earth. The strength and life in his body were slowly fading…and yet, his soul seemed to be busting with life. Many tears flowed, his hugs got tighter, and his grief heavier. He was mourning the end of this life, as were we. But parallel to that was the tremendous joy in his heart that allowed him to joke and smile (even when he couldn’t fully move his face anymore), and to peacefully write “I am ready” over and over again for the last 10 days of his life on earth. And, boy oh boy, did he party when he got up there. Take it from a mother’s heart who felt every second of his Heavenly transition, and every ounce of ELATION that he experienced once he got up there. Now I know, without a doubt, why he “couldn’t wait.”
So, as we begin this Lent, I want to remember Paul’s words:
“For this slight momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, because we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen; for the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” (2 Corinthians 4:17-18)
This Lent, I want to mindfully cultivate a “holy longing” in my heart. To integrate into the very depths of my soul the absolute knowledge that “glory weighs more than ashes.” That though this life may bring us heaviness and heartache, illness and disappointment, pain and fear… What do those ashes matter, when glory awaits us all? What can harm us when, truly, we are nothing but pilgrims journeying on towards Eternity? What can death do to us, when Christ has already conquered it on the cross?
“O death where is thy sting? O death where is thy victory?” (1 Corinthians 15:55)
I wish a truly blessed beginning of Lent to you all. May we not lose sight of what truly matters. May we find it in our hearts to hope, even when it hurts. For “great is our reward in Heaven” (Matthew 5:12)
God bless you all! And may we allow a holy, peaceful, and joyful longing to become part of our hearts.