By the second Sunday of Lent, the ashes have settled in. The 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. The birthday of my deceased son. It's a strange and holy practice of remembering. Ashes and light. Dust and glory. The world marked an ending. God marked a beginning.

It isn't a Chicago winter and it isn't 36 years ago. But that's where I'm at right now, watching a blizzard as my newborn sleeps peacefully.

It all started with a little end-of-year tidying up weirdness. I found a small container of Tide and remembered the last time it was used...