Unforsaken in the Ashes

Finding the presence of God in pain

Before marking my forehead with ashes, the priest spoke the vaguely familiar words:

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

I didn't grow up in a liturgical church, but as an adult, I've explored and adopted some of these traditions. One of these is recognizing the Lenten season, which mirrors the 40 days Jesus spent in the wilderness. During Lent, Christians might embrace hunger, fasting, repentance, solitude, and spiritual battle as we wait for the rising of Easter. The awareness of our human need and fragility sits on the surface.

I, too, have walked through my own Lenten season—though mine was not bound by the Church calendar. I fasted not by choice, but by necessity. I lost wonderful things: the ability to walk, to dress myself, and to eat freely outside the confines of renal and diabetic diets. Even screens were blurred beyond use, and my hands were too shaky to write. My suffering consumed me, and death felt close. My own mortality was inescapable.

DEAR PAIN

Who gave you permission to throb under my skin

And steal the vibrancy from my days?

You're a magnifying glass devouring my attention

Dancing with knives and all consuming

A villain who plays games with his victims

Do you delight as I cower and tremble?

My shell cracks as a beetle's underfoot

You always see me at my worst:

Eyes brimming, head swaying;

Beseeching for intervention

You mold me into compliance

Can't I just curl up and die?

I'm glad Dissociation showed up at the party

Dropping the beat of my emotions

Pulling me from my bed

But, hazy, now I can't find my skin

I'd laud you for your role in my survival

But you wandered too far from your jurisdiction

Your design is busted; let me tell you something

When alerting that something is broken

It doesn't help to use a siren that's exploding

Maybe what's worse of all

Is that you're an unsolvable cypher

You're not generous with answers

And your misery echos onward in time

My God Who Sees

When I was sick, in stasis between my lupus diagnosis and Kai's birth, I read The God Who Sees by Karen González. Before I fell ill, I was facilitating "A Christlike Welcome" group, delving into how the Bible frames our response to immigration. Her book was a good companion. At the time, I loved it, but now I can only remember one part—likely because I tied it to this season of personal trauma.

The section was about the suffering Jesus. González was exploring the Catholic background of many immigrants and their connection to the imagery of the crucifix. It affected me profoundly.

The Crucifix

I had always disdained the crucifix, toting classic Evangelical statements like, "Jesus has risen, so why would you glorify God dead?" What I didn't understand was that the purpose of a crucifix wasn’t to place a period at the end of Jesus’ story.

Nor did meditating on Jesus' death have to be a method of making us feel guiltier—an emotional self-flagellation where we repeat, "Look at these gruesome details of the torture Jesus endured. Don’t you feel bad yet? You should feel bad. This is what you deserve."

What if meditating on Jesus' suffering didn’t require me to dismiss the magic of the resurrection or self-induce guilt? What if there was another way of beholding it? And that is how I tumbled headfirst into this ancient way of relating and connecting with God through suffering.

Jesus + Mortality

Mortality is not foreign to Jesus.

I often reflect on Christ’s incarnation during Christmas, marveling at how God became human. But Lenten seasons—whether by the calendar or through The Wilderness—also invite us to meditate on another aspect of incarnation: pain.

Jesus was also Emmanuel through dying. He did not remain distant from suffering but stepped into it fully.

As a human, Jesus understood the vulnerability of fragility. He knew what it was to hunger, thirst, ache, throb, and grieve. He bore all the failings of a human body so He could be with us in ours.

"This High Priest of ours understands our weaknesses, for he faced all of the same testings we do, yet he did not sin." —Hebrews 4:15 (NLT)

I used to find this verse frustrating, not encouraging. Of course he didn't sin! Yes, I know he is just that good. I get it, I'm not. Thanks for rubbing it in my face again. But this type of focus made me miss the the meaning of this verse. The Message Translation helped me see it in context:

“Now that we know what we have—Jesus, this great High Priest with ready access to God—let’s not let it slip through our fingers. We don’t have a priest who is out of touch with our reality. He’s been through weakness and testing, experienced it all—all but the sin. So let’s walk right up to him and get what he is so ready to give. Take the mercy, accept the help.” —Hebrews 4:14-16 (MSG)

Like the stories of the immigrants González shared, who experienced God's presence in their trials, I too began to encounter God through pain, fully believing He truly could empathize with me.

Futility of It All

I don't want to get caught in a web of remembering. I remember how bloated my body was. Or being unable to walk. Of being like an abandoned child, in so much need from one problem to the next, trying to stopping a flood by seeking answers from professionals who just wanted me out of their hands.

Those types of pain were genuine, but they were different than acute physical pain. Of skin stretching, flesh ripping, nurses pumping, needles stabbing, body collapsing, screaming, begging, curling...I hate how intimate pain is and in how many ways I've come to know it.

It deeply bothers me that Jesus experienced pointless pain. At least my pain—though overwhelming—served as a signal to seek healing. But eventually, we all face suffering with no escape; an abyss of pain with no recourse. The very system in our bodies designed to warn us of danger becomes powerless to prevent it, yet we must endure it anyway.

My First Ash Wednesday Service

Last year I attended my first Ash Wednesday Service at an Anglican church. I stumbled through the liturgy and was greeted by mostly elderly folks with "peace be upon you." I was even invited to a fish fry, which, disappointingly, I couldn't attend.

I was delighted. I was uncomfortable. I was even disturbed at some points. But mostly, I was extremely curious, as I feel about many things outside of my experience. (Cultural anthropology major, remember?)

I also found myself squirming through passage after passage about sin, agreeing in some ways, but also unable to point a finger on exactly what it was that I felt resistance to. But it was an Ash Wednesday service, so of course there'd be a lot about sin! Why was I surprised?

However, once we got to the prayers of confession and forgiveness, I noticed something.

This liturgy wasn't designed for an individual. It was a community confession. And as I thought of the laments I pray over at Average Advocate for the injustice and suffering of the people of the world—some which groups I belong to are responsible for—I was finally able to lean in to the liturgy.

The priest's short message was genuine, exhorting us to not just pretend contrition on the outside. After all, he pointed out, ashes on the forehead and rending clothes only leave you with dust and ripped fabric. He encouraged us to celebrate lent not by fasting chocolate, but by fasting pride, greed, comparison, etc...In a way it reminded me of Isaiah 58, the fast for justice. And to remember that trying harder isn't going to get us anywhere, but our standing with God, through mercy and grace will.

The Narrative Arc

Maybe it is because I am a writer, or maybe because narrative therapy was a very useful tool for me in my healing, but I was intrigued when I noticed our liturgy had a story arc that went something like this:

-Our arrival

-Our brokenness

-Our common experience

-Our mortality—marked by ashes

-Our redemption

-Our forgiveness

-Our hope

-Our blessing (ideally, for the flourishing of others)

The rest of the day, with ashes on my forehead, I felt awake to this narrative as I saw it ebb and flow in my life and the lives of those around me.

Whatever you believe, and wherever you are with God, spirituality, or faith deconstruction—we still share the words of the priest in common:

"Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."

Just as we've been born of the ground, may our belief continue to be formed as new creations who remain pliable to their Maker. Let's hold onto this truth that those passing through pain must be intimately aware of: We are not dead yet.

Communion

Like everyone in the middle of their stories, I didn't know what direction mine would turn. Would my son die? Would I? What complications would we face? Would I need a kidney transplant in a few months? Would I be permanently disabled? In the thick of my human misery, trauma, and fear, I needed an anchor. If Jesus also knew pain, I needed to scoot as close to him as I could in his suffering.

Determined, I began partaking in the rite of communion daily. I didn’t need a priest or pastor—Jesus already held that role. Whenever anyone was with me, I invited them to join me in my destitution in this solemn and sacred practice.

"For every time you eat this bread and drink this cup, you are announcing the Lord’s death until he comes again." —1 Corinthians 11:26 (NLT)

Proclaiming His Death

I always thought the phrase "proclaiming his death" was both morbid and silky, slipping through my understanding. I asked my erudite friend, ChatGPT, what various Christians traditions think about it. But although the answer had complexity, none were surprising and could be distilled down to the following: atonement, salvation, belonging, redemption, hope, and restoration.

Those are only words that fall short of experience: For a season, I was skin-to-skin with my mortality, just a breath away from ashes. And I’m not the only one.

And yet, Jesus went further—fully enclosed in the grave. I was passing through a season of death that he had already endured. So for weeks I would eat the bread and drink of the cup to recognize I was not alone. Communion became more than a ritual; it became a lifeline, a way to proclaim that even in death I have an anchor.

"Do this in remembrance of me" —Luke 22:19

Remembering

Today the ghost of pain feels close—especially this week, on the anniversary of its epicenter: my son's birthday.¹ Often, I don’t even realize I’m "remembering"—whether in an unexpected flashback or disappearing into lowkey dissociation. But with my nervous system no longer in total chaos, I can sit with this remembering in an unfamiliar way.

Remembering comes in waves of sadness and tenderness. I wish I could hold the version of myself from three years ago and whisper to her the other side of the story: You will both live. You will endure this pain and still find joy.

Although I hate remembering my pain, I am the only human who truly can. No one else lived through it as I did. I'm discovering that remembering can also be an act of compassion, a way of honoring this woman who endured.

Remembrance is grief. And maybe that is what communion is, too—a gentle grief where God's suffering, fragility, and mortality intersects with our own pain, brokenness, and finite lives. Here we are not alone for we are in the presence of his Spirit. We might even begin to inch towards faith, wondering if more than the dust of death will have the last word.

“God's suffering, fragility, and mortality intersects with our own pain, brokenness, and finite lives.”

Pain Doesn’t Know the Conclusion

Lent, pain, and acts of remembrance (both my own and communion) have become intertwined for me, shaping how I encounter my own fragility and meeting God within it. And yet I couldn’t figure out how to conclude this essay as I wrested with these words over the last couple weeks. Like a good modern writer, I poured the whole article into ChatGPT, asking what it would write in a conclusion:

We are dust, and to dust we shall return. But that is not the end of the story. The narrative arc bends toward redemption, toward resurrection. The suffering Christ is also the risen Christ. And in His presence, even pain—even death—loses its final hold.

My natural tendency is to agree with this direction, twisting this essay to end on a beat of hope (as you see in most of my articles). But something felt off about this during Lent, in the midst of the story’s darkness.

That’s I stumbled upon another writer,

Marissa Franks Burt

, who also wrote about her family’s journey through suffering. I greatly appreciated that she bravely stayed in this tension through her conclusion:

Can death ever be timely when we were made for life?

I’m having trouble ending this post, wrapping it up with some sort of tidy conclusion, but I think that’s perhaps appropriate.

There is no conclusion for the Lenten moments—no tidy answer for my empty-armed friends, for the mothers still pacing emergency room floors, for the hollowed-eyed fathers in the hospital coffee line, for all of us who cry wordless prayers of pain.

Together, I wait with the suffering, gasping, beautiful world, believing hard that Easter is coming.

This is what I know to be true: however long pain lasts, it is always too long. Today I don’t want to minimize your pain by jumping the gun with my shouts, “Look at the horizon, for restoration is coming!”

Rather, what I want you to take away is that Jesus sits in Gethsemane with us. He is available to suffer alongside us in the long nights when we are barely hanging on. And he will even show up when it feels impossible that he could still be faithful, loving, and generous with his resurrection power.

March Book Launch Thank you Giveaway for Women’s Day!

Are you part of my book launch for Justice-Minded Kids and The Life Mapping Workbook? This is the last month of giveaways! The week of the 24th-31st we’re going all in! Can you help?

⏩ Choose one item to do from my launch list! (The rest of the rules to this giveaway are found there, too.) Winner chosen at random at the end of March! This month is all about women for women’s month, including:

• Amber earrings from refugees via Love Anyway Shop

• Canvas bag with quote, “And off she went to change the world”

• Framed quote art created just for us by Danielle Ferrin @ Fun Places Design

• Books about women around the world: I Am Malala and Half the Sky

• “Make a difference” sticker pack

• Pura Vida bracelet

• Mexican tile from San Diego

• “Votes for Women” cards highlighting women in the suffrage movement

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See what’s new on my Patheos column: Flourishing Faith and Justice

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1. Here is Birthday #1 (House of Life) and for Birthday #2 (Goodbye Baby & Hope Rising)