Ash Wednesday 2020

Remember you are dust.

I was in the hospital over Christmas because of extreme edema (ultimately I was carrying around 47 lbs of water weight as a result of one of my chemo meds). At one point, one of the nurses slapped a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) bracelet on me and wrote DNR on the whiteboard where I got information about my treatment plan, etc.

I had a vague memory of making that decision on my advanced directive years ago, but I'm wasn't sure that's what I wanted now.

I prayed over and over that night: O God, please don't let me die because I couldn't pee enough!

The next day, a different nurse saw the note and my bracelet, rolled her eyes, and removed those frightening letters from the whiteboard and my wrist.

"You are nowhere close to dying. This isn't necessary."


Remember you are dust.

The instant response to hearing my diagnosis was Cancer = Death. I started thinking of things to clear out in preparation, writing out family stories I don't think I had told (or to which my child hadn't really listened).

Then Time happened. Death was less a blaring horn as background noise like the constant pain of neuropathy in my hands and feet. I wash my hands frequently and fuss at my family to wash hands, keep items away items that carry germs away from me, etc.

But I hate how this fear drives me into a bubble, separated and alone; afraid of what my child has brought home; afraid of my husband's every sneeze; afraid of sharing the Peace at church.

In my anger I theoretically put myself in danger just by interacting with people. I press against these boundaries because my mental health is at stake. I'm resentful that I constantly have to balance the two.


Remember you are dust.

 Constant news of the coronavirus spreading plucks a vibrating string of panic. I have a target on my head because of my compromised immunity. Masks don't work. My family could be exposed if/when the pandemic truly hits the United States. I know there would be nowhere I can hide. My wrist is slapped with the DNR bracelet again.

Where does this leave me spiritually at the beginning of Lent? This is my desert, and I am scared. I've been taught in the most Protestant of ways that this is an individual journey that I must face alone. Correction: God is walking with me. And while I know this, I need the manifestations of
God's hands and feet. So will you walk with me?

Remember you are dust.
But I don't want to blow away quite yet. 

I accept this sign on my forehead as a symbol of love, trust, and absolute defiance.

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Special thanks to Neil Ellis Orts for the inspiration for both this post and the challenge to keep writing.

Prayer for a Collection Development Librarian

God of Discernment and Love,

Help me, in the tending of the library's collection,
Be wise;
Seek equity;
And support the needs of all those
We welcome freely and graciously
into our library spaces.

Amen