02/18/2026
FOR ASH WEDNESDAY AND THE BEGINNING OF LENT:
From Dust
From dust we are made.
Not marble.
Not steel.
Not the kind of thing that pretends it will last forever.
Dust.
The soft language of beginnings.
The quiet grammar of God’s hands.
A palm pressed into earth,
a breath leaning low enough to stir the ground
into something that could stand
and say I am.
We rise fragile.
Skin stretched over borrowed bones.
Hearts beating like borrowed drums.
Every inhale a reminder
that life is not owned—
it is received.
And yet how fiercely we live.
We build houses as if storms don’t exist.
We love as if goodbye is a rumor.
We argue, forgive, kneel, and rise again—
dust learning how to hope.
I have seen dust weep
at hospital beds.
I have seen it laugh
around kitchen tables.
I have watched it bow its head in pews,
ash traced on foreheads,
a smudge that says
remember.
Remember you are not permanent.
Remember you are precious anyway.
From dust we are made—
but what mercy
that breath was added.
What mercy
that the Maker did not leave us as soil,
but filled us with longing,
with hunger for goodness,
with the ache that reaches past the grave.
And when we return—
when the body loosens its grip
and the breath goes back where it came from—
we will not fall as strangers.
We will return
like children brought home after a long day,
dust on our sleeves,
stories in our mouths,
hands still smelling faintly
of the garden we were trusted with.
From dust we came.
To dust we return.
But between those two silences,
we are given the holy work
of becoming more than we were—
of loving while we can,
of forgiving quickly,
of planting trees whose shade
we may never sit beneath.
Dust, yes.
But dust
that was once touched by God.
By
John Martin Perry Reed
1st Lieutenant, US Army