Shattered

As the VDOT crew was setting up their cautionary signs of road work ahead yesterday, Baxter and I stopped to greet them and learned they were going to clean up the remains of a tree that had not so long ago reminded me of our quickly life can change, how quickly it can end.

We left them to work, but this morning we went back to where the tree had once stood. As time has passed, I began to wonder if perhaps the experience wasn’t as striking as it seemed.

Then, the neighbor who witnessed the scene and I were talking one day and to give me a time reference, he said, “You know, that day you almost got it.”

Still…

Today, I stood over holes in roadside from where limbs had pierced the ground and saw a crack in the pavement where it had crumbled. It seemed like I should do something. As I looked around, the brisk air stung my cheeks, the blue sky encouraged my spirit, the sound of the nearby spring’s rushing water washed away fears. The something I needed to do was live and love well. Bax and I picked up speed and added an extra mile to our planned walk.

Following is the message I shared with our church family on Ash Wednesday about my initial reaction. I’m grateful for the shattering. It’s my prayer that in the message you’ll find some nudge to help each other pick up the pieces and hold hands more fiercely, hug longer, and simply love. It’s our best response to being shattered.

On a Thursday a couple weeks ago, Baxter – my pooch – and I headed out for a morning walk. It was fairly warm and I was scheduled to work that evening so it seemed the perfect day to take a long walk. Once outside, I was struck fairly quickly by the wind. I didn’t remember any advisories or such so we kept going. Still, about 30 minutes in, I decided it was time to turn around. Small limbs were falling everywhere and it just didn’t feel great.

We got back to a stretch of road that was blocked by ridges on both side, but instead of sheltering us from the wind it seemed to be creating some kind of tunnel effect that was intensifying its force. I grew increasingly edgy and noticed that Baxter’s hackles were standing on end.

Then, I heard it. That crack akin to a rifle shot just behind us.

I turned to see a tree falling where we’d stood seconds earlier. The tree seemed to fall in slow motion. I watched as the trunk broke apart and the debris flew as it hit the pavement. I’m not sure how long I stood there before moving.

I finally started to walk away, but decided I’d better at least clean up the road enough so that vehicles could get by. Our neighbor who lived across the road joined us.

The tree had taken down part of his fence. I figured he wanted to assess the damage, but he came and stood next to me and declared, “That had to scare you.”

In the past, I might have attempted some bravado – some reassurance, some toughness. But, on that day, I looked him in the eye and said, “Yes. Yes, it did.”

He offered to drive us home, but I opted to walk, thinking the exercise might help ease the adrenaline coursing through me.

I took one more look at the tree’s remains and started to thank God for our safety. But before I could offer a prayer, I thought of the tens of thousands of earthquake victims in Turkey and Syria and, then, Jesus’ words that the Father “makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous.” I suspect that verse could also say that the earth shakes and trees fall on the righteous and the unrighteous.

I changed my prayer to one of gratitude for God’s presence.

Still, as I walked, in mind’s eye, the tree suddenly became symbolic – of situations in my life and around the world that seemed to be collapsing.

When I got home and finally sat down, the adrenaline was gone. The tears came and came some more.

The confrontation with my fragile finiteness unleashed tears that hadn’t been shed for so many things – big and small — coworkers with their positions eliminated, newspapers shut down, friends and family who are struggling, the earthquake victims, more personal deaths I hadn’t mourned properly, the miserable pain in my hip. I cried about all of it that morning. That day, I was shattered.

We all know in our minds that we are fragile and mortal, but, that day, I knew it in my heart.

In a few minutes, with a smear of ashes, I’ll remind you too that we all were made from dust and we’ll return to dust. But, right now, we’re here – likely all of us sitting to some degree or another in the midst of ashes  — or fallen trees — of broken hearts, lost dreams, worries, aching joints, worrisome test results, dying friends, the knowledge of our sins and failures and temptations we can’t seem to resist. It’s a wonder we’re not crying most days.

But that, my brothers and sisters, is the incredible wonder of Ash Wednesday. This service, this day is devoted to telling the truth about our lives. They’re beautiful and we want to live. Yet, living can be so hard, so full of pain, loss, despair and sin.

The world outside these doors tell us we’re blessed when we don’t have a hair out of place, our car shines, and we’ve got it all together and are going after everything we want.

Today, in this service, we declare that’s not true. We are imperfect. We are fragile. We’re dependent on one another. Our bodies break. Sometimes our spirits do too.

Despite all that, we are blessed.

Today, we tell the truth. We remember what we’re made of.

That’s not easy. It takes courage to tell the truth, but when we embrace our reality we are so much more ready to love. We understand that our time to love and work for the Kingdom here is so limited and we know we can extend God’s love with messy hair, aching bodies, and dented cars.

The author of Psalm 51 shows us the way. He begins with a little reassurance – perhaps to himself – of God’s steadfast love. Then, he confesses his sin front and center – My sin is ever before me. I have done what is evil in Your sight.

With awareness of his sin, of his frailty, the psalmist then recognizes his need for God’s help. He begs for a new heart, while realizing that a broken spirit and contrite heart are what is needed for God to mold him into a new creation.

The Rev. Jan Richardson expressed this all so beautifully in her question. “Did you not know what the Holy One can do with dust?”

Do you know what our Lord can do with dust?

Lent is the season in which we remember Jesus’ journey into the wilderness and his path to the cross. It is the season where, I believe, we can most easily meet him face to face – our suffering and his suffering collide. Then, Easter comes and we are assured again that pain, death and dust do not have the final word. Our savior does.

Let us begin our journey toward Easter by telling the truth about our lives and remembering that we are made of dust and to dust we will return and, at the same time never, forgetting what our God can do with the dust.

As I prepared the ashes this evening, mixing them with oil, I didn’t blend them with a spoon, but with a piece of wood from the fallen tree. I went back and collected several pieces of the tree — a reminder to myself, to all of us that we are here today, that our God is with us and he can transform even that which feels completely shattered. Let us experience with the psalmist the joy of our salvation and offer a spirit willing to journey with Jesus to the cross.

Let us begin by receiving the ashes.