Wednesday: Marked by Dust

Marked by Dust: The Weight and Wonder of Being Human

Place your hand over your heart.
Feel the steady rhythm beneath your palm.
Now exhale—slowly, fully—until there is nothing left.

This body, this breath, this skin—it is sacred.
It is dust, yes. But it is also alive, held, known.

Today, we step into Lent, not as a burden, but as a remembering.
We pause. We turn.
We let our hands rest in the truth of what has always been:

We are made of earth and sky,
of breath and longing,
of what fades and what remains.

Dust does not appear from nothing.
It is the echo of what once stood.
It is bone and breath, time and decay, longing and loss—
the proof that something has already burned,
already been broken apart,
already given itself to the wind.

And yet—
dust is not an ending.

It is the beginning of renewal,
the raw material of what will come next.

Sacred Invitation: A Whisper to the Dust

A Poetic Whisper—What the Dust Knows

This is a day for words spoken softly,
for reminders meant to be carried, not grasped.

Whisper to yourself:
"The dust does not fear the wind. It knows it belongs."

Let this be not a sentence of sorrow, but of grounding—
of knowing that you are made of earth and sky, of breath and bone,
of everything that has ever been and will ever be.

You are part of a story far older than yourself.

Close your eyes.

Feel your breath move in, move out. The quiet rhythm of being alive.

Now, softly, whisper:
"I am dust, and I am beloved."

Let the words settle into your bones. Let them be both a truth and a mystery. A knowing and a wonder.

Embodied Practice: Touch the Ground

This body, this breath, this skin—it is sacred. It is dust, yes, but it is also alive, held, known.

Today, let your hands remember.

Touch the earth beneath you if you can. If not, press your palms into the wood of a table, the cool surface of stone, the fabric of your sleeve. Let your fingers trace the dust that settles unseen in corners and along windowsills. Let yourself notice what is always there but rarely acknowledged.

Feel the weight of what holds you. The ground beneath your feet, the history within your body, the breath that carries you forward.

You are made of earth and sky, of elements that have existed since the beginning.

You are dust, but you are not forgotten.

You are dust, but you are not alone.

A Question to Carry: The Weight of Remembering

Close your eyes.
Let the question settle—not to be answered,
but to be held.

What does it stir in you to remember you are dust?

Not as an end, but as a belonging. As a tethering to something greater, something eternal.

Let the question settle—not to be answered, but to be held.

Ash Wednesday is about remembering who we are—dust and breath, brokenness and belovedness. Today, we mark ourselves with ashes not as a symbol of despair, but as an invitation into transformation. As you reflect on this day, we invite you to watch The Butterfly Circus—a story that speaks to the heart of this truth. Watch with open hands. Watch as an act of prayer. And notice what it stirs in you.