Dust, Light and Another Birthday Comes and Goes

By the second Sunday of Lent, the ashes have settled in.

The initial sting of “remember you are dust” has softened into something quieter. We are no longer at the doorway of the season. We are inside it now. Walking it.

And almost every year, right about here, I find myself holding a birthday.

March 2, 1989 — that was the day my son Chad was born. A blizzard baby. Cold and white outside the hospital window. Warm and bright in that small room in Chicago where I first held him. His father was beaming. I was exhausted and undone in the best possible way.

Now, nearly every year, March 2 rests somewhere inside Lent.

Sometimes near its beginning.

Sometimes deeper in.

“Remember you are dust…”

These words echo through this season. Words about mortality. About limits. About returning.

And I want to whisper back: I know.

I know about dust.

There is something especially tender about a birthday that keeps colliding with Lent.

Because birthdays are supposed to be about more.

More candles.

More years.

More becoming.

But when your child has died, birthdays become something else entirely.

They become markers of “not enough.”

Not enough years.

Not enough laughter.

Not enough watching him grow into who he was meant to be.

There are no more earthly candles for Chad. No more “next year.” No more wondering what 37 or 40 or 50 might look like on him.

Just this strange and holy practice of remembering.

Lent is often described as a season of turning. A time to pause and notice what has gone sideways, and gently shift back toward the Light. Before Chad died, that turning felt manageable. Adjust my prayer habits. Be more patient. Give something up and call it spiritual growth.

After he died, Lent became something else.

The ashes felt heavier.

The reflection more dangerous.

Because when I turn inward now, I sometimes run headlong into regret. Into guilt. Into the dark wilderness of “what if.” Grieving mothers know this terrain well. It does not matter whether it is March or mid-summer — the wilderness is always close.

And yet.

On this second Sunday of Lent, the Church tells the story of Transfiguration. Jesus shining. Glory breaking through. A glimpse — just a glimpse — of what is ultimately true.

Light in the middle of the journey.

Lent, it turns out, is not only about ashes.

It is also about becoming radiant.

Grief has been its own kind of conversion for me.

A turning I never would have chosen.

A shifting that came through fire.

Chad’s birthday during Lent feels like standing at the foot of that mountain — still aware of dust, still aware of loss — and yet daring to believe there is more than what I can see.

Yes, there were not enough birthdays.

And.

There was another one.

June 23, 2019 — the day the world says my son died — is, in the language of heaven, his truest birthday.

His birth into eternal life.

The Church calls the day a saint dies their dies natalis — their “birthday” into glory. I am not canonizing my son. I am simply clinging to the promise that death is not the end of the story.

The world saw ashes.

Heaven saw light.

The world marked an ending.

God marked a beginning.

I still go to the cemetery on March 2. I still dust off the headstone and bring flowers. I still imagine him feasting — because I am quite certain there is no Lent in heaven. No fasting. No restraint. Only fullness.

But here on earth, we live in the both/and.

Ashes and light.

Dust and glory.

Not enough and forever.

The second Sunday of Lent reminds us that even before Easter comes, there are glimpses. Radiance breaking through. A promise shining ahead of us.

And if I have learned anything since Chad died, it is this:

Resurrection is not denial.

It is not pretending the ashes don’t sting.

It is not calling grief “beautiful.”

Resurrection is trusting that what looks like an ending is sometimes the holiest beginning of all.

From ashes to light.

From March 2 to June 23.

From not enough birthdays…to one that will never end.

---

For the mother quietly marking a birthday this season — please know you are not alone.

Sacred Sorrows offers faith-filled retreats and online programs for grieving mothers seeking rest, reflection, and the steady presence of God. If this ministry has touched your life, or if you would like to help us continue supporting women on this sacred journey, would you consider making a donation?

Your gift helps provide retreats, spiritual resources, and gatherings where ashes are acknowledged… and resurrection is still proclaimed.

Because every grieving mother deserves someone to sit beside her in the dust — and to whisper hope.

Please click here to donate online, or send your check to Sacred Sorrows, P.O. Box 396, Higley, Arizona 85236