02/18/2026
ASHES
We wear the ashes of the palms we waved
long ago, the crosses we wore,
the prayer candles we lit, the faith we thought we had,
the ashes of so many ways we've failed each other.
We wear them, front and center,
how we ourselves have been burned,
the ashes of our burned bridges, love ungiven,
cruel words that singed someone's heart,
the ashes of who we'd hoped to be,
even of who we still hope to become,
the dust than which we we are no greater—
except for this little breath of breath—
smeared on our foreheads.
We wear the ashes from the garbage
we took out back and burned,
left over from all we surround ourselves with
to stay safe and comfy.
The smudge that's all that's left
of the immigrant deported, the Native girl missing,
the ashes of 9/11, ashes of Hiroshima, ashes of Gaza.
They are the ashes of Palisades, of Notre Dame,
our father's ashes still sitting on the shelf because
we don't know quite what to do with them,
the ashes of our own cremation,
scattered already before our death.
These are the ashes of our shame
and our sorrow, and our dying,
trying to do right by you, God, and failing,
though still your light burns within us.
We wear them as an act of faith, remembering
this is the dust from which you create us,
knowing you receive our dust, bless it,
and breathe into it your life.
On our foreheads, day by day making our way
toward our death and beyond,
we wear this dust that shines with light,
this bewildering sign of hope.
-Steve Garnaas-Holmes
(Unfolding Light - 2/18/26)
